


Punch-drunk

by tofuworm



Category: Metallica
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Romantic Comedy, basically just the plot of Much Ado About Nothing by Shakespeare with Metallica characters inserted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofuworm/pseuds/tofuworm
Summary: Kirk drunk-marries a townie, Hetfield creates an enemy, Lars talks way too much, and Jason just wants to cuddle.Takes place from January to September of 1993 -- eight straight months of gooey rom-com goodness at the tail end of the Black album tour. Fluff, funnies, and drama incoming.





	Punch-drunk

**Author's Note:**

> I had lots of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much. I tried to be historically accurate with my dates (best believe I did my research), and attempted to keep everyone true to character, but sometimes they slip into the tropey roles of romcom characters. Like we all know Lars isn't an ordained minister. But sue me. It's cute.
> 
> cheers!
> 
> edit: still in the process of re-working this, as when I pasted it in from my google doc, the formatting of the punctuation got all goofed up. please bear with me. thanks!

**January 25th, 1993**

The scraggly strands of blond hair are soft between Maggie’s fingers, slippery soft like the horsehair of a violin’s bow, or the downy fluff on the belly of a kitten. She is threading it between her fingertips and smoothing it across her cheek as she watches her best friend at the altar, grinning wide, and in her croaky drunken whisper, she says to herself, “This is just like a fairytale story.” 

But the soft blond hairs disappear from her cheek and are replaced by the prickly stubble of a beard as James turns to press his smiling lips against her jaw. And as soon as those pricklies scratch her face, they begin poking holes in her fairytale story.

“James!” Maggie giggles and shrinks away from his lips. “Quit it, this is their _moment._ ” 

“I’m tryin’ to have a moment with _you._ ”

 Before them, Maggie’s best friend and her groom are clutching hands, reciting vows, just seconds away from the big kiss and eternal matrimony. Any hopeless romatic's pipe dream. A moment to cherish and remember forever. But James won’t stop kissing her jaw.

“I said quit it!”

If anyone were sober enough, they would’ve most likely turned and told the two of them to pipe down. But they’re all so hammered that it’s a miracle the six of them are able to stand there, gathered upright on their feet around the makeshift altar at the edge of Kirk’s pool. The floodlights from the back patio send winking ripples of light across the water’s surface, making Maggie’s vision swim as she puts a hand to Hetfield’s face and pushes him away.

“This is precious, now _watch_ ,” she hisses, wrangling his hand into her own and holding on tight. That should prevent any further distractions.

Beside her, James merely grins and tightens his own grip, shoving his free hand into his pocket. Resume scene.

“And Kirk,” Lars is saying, gesturing grandly from the guitarist to his bride, “Do you take -- erm -- Vanessa -- “

“Vic _tori_ a.”

“ -- as your lovely bedded wife?”

Kirk is beaming, adoration gleaming from every sweaty pore as he replies, “I do.”

“Well, I think that's that. This is when you kiss, right? Yeah. You may kiss the bride.”

Maggie’s heart clenches. Her fingers are strangling James’ in an ecstatic chokehold as the bride and groom lean in closer, and closer, and closer, until they’re so close she feels like her chest is going to burst.

“This is it, James, true love's kiss! Look!”

His beer-hot breath is close to her ear when he murmurs back, “I only want to look at you.”

 Maggie turns to be met with beautiful blue eyes. Suddenly, the pounding in her throat stops. And then it begins again. She is face-to-face with James, so close his facial hair is tickling her lips, and she is breathless and dizzy and amazed by the nearness, by how handsome he is. 

Their fingers release from each other as her hands move to his chest. The world is lurching under her feet, tipping her ever so slowly forward, closer to that beer-breath mouth. 

Lars' voice breaks through the haze.

“I present to you, Mister and Misses Hammett!”

Everything spins again. Rice rains down on them, hands are clapping, and Maggie is vaguely aware of Kirk hefting Victoria into his arms and wobbling precariously on the edge of the swimming pool just as James’ mouth closes over hers. Before her eyes even flutter shut, the whole world is falling dark.

 

 

 

**January 26th, 1993**

When Maggie comes to, she can’t tell if she’s fallen asleep with a piece of salami as a pillow or if that sticky sensation is just her drool forming a swamp beneath her head. She also can’t tell if the hammy odor under her nose is said salami pillow or just her own stench. What she is certain of, however, is that the sleep-sand cementing her eyelids together and the woozy ache in her head are the symptoms of a mammoth hangover swooping in. A familiar but unwelcome sensation.

It takes an uncountable number of minutes for her to convince herself to really wake up. When she has the resolve to do so, she pries her eyes apart and pushes herself up onto her elbows with a grunt.

What she sees beneath her leaves her confused and blinking: a butt cheek. A bare ass cheek, slick with saliva, a rope of which is slung between her mouth and the pale white skin. Her drool, on some man’s peach-fuzzy ass, a man who is asleep face down on the floor with his boxers around his knees and arms in a halo-shape around his buzz-cut head.

 _That would explain things,_ she thinks. And then, _How in God's name did I get here?_

Her memory is a clean slate. She can hardly remember a thing. She recalls meeting up with Tori at a bar, downing shots of vodka in celebration of her friend’s newly acquired doctorate, making friends with a guy Tori had met at the jukebox, and then...nothing. Absolutely nothing. Vague snapshots of standing in line at a 7-11 with a bouquet of roses in hand, being crushed inside a taxi, and standing near a swimming pool come to mind, but they don’t seem to make any sense. Could have been a dream. A really wild, vivid dream.

But glancing around at Buzzcut Butt Boy and the large, unfamiliar living room she’s in, Maggie begins to doubt if it really was a dream. She’d like to think she’s _still_ dreaming, but the pulsing in her temples tells her it’s sadly not the case. 

“Oh, fuck.” She cradles her face in her hands and lets out a long, stinky breath. “I don’t do this. What did I do? I never do this.”

So, she came home with a stranger, slept with him, and fell asleep on his ass cheek. With her clothes still on. _Did_ she sleep with him? Her jaw aches and her hair is tousled, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Could've slept weird. Could've gotten roped into some weird fight club and got clobbered by a pantsless skinhead.

She looks around again, hoping to rejuvenate her memory by surveying her surroundings, and her belly jumps when she catches sight of a familiar white coat draped across the arm of a nearby couch. Tori’s lab coat, the one she jokingly wore to the bar last night as an obnoxious form of public broadcast announcing she was now a doctor. Which means Tori is here somewhere.

That gets Maggie moving. After clambering dizzily to her feet, she begins to pad barefoot through the living room, on a quest to find her friend. Maybe Tori will remember. Maybe she’ll clear things up. If either of the two ever has their shit together, it's always Tori, never Maggie.

The house is huge. Whoever it belongs to must be loaded - this is what Maggie has always imagined the inside of those gorgeous Pacific Heights mini mansions to look like. High ceilings, crown molding, marble counters and the like. She feels like she's scouring an alien planet, and only to discover that she and Buzzcut are the only souls present on the first floor, though the wreckage from the previous night’s shenanigans are apparent: bottles and cans are strewn about on all surfaces, lamps and knick knacks have been knocked to the wayside, and the furniture is peppered with random articles of clothing here and there. It looks less like the site of a one-night stand, more like the venue of a rager. Or, again, some unspoken-of Neo-nazi fight club.

When she pads to the top of the grand staircase, the gentle snoring of a sleeping form stops her abruptly. In a little alcove near the balcony, a small long-haired man is curled up like a kitten in a winged armchair, fast asleep. His heart-shaped face looks peaceful, a stray tendril of brown hair stirring across his lips as he breathes in, out, slow and lazy. His shirt is on, but crumpled at the base of the chair are a pair of leather pants and black socks. Seems to be a trend with the sleeping men and lack of pants in this place. Maggie stares at him, taking in his familiar features as best she can, and vaguely she can remember this man grinning and orating with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bible in the other. Still, the recollection makes no sense. Feels more like a fever dream than anything else.

The mental image she’s beginning to form of the night before is starting to make her queasy, something completely apart from the hangover, though she can't yet justify it. It all still feels alien, so unlike her, so unlike the reality she's used to. There's drunken shenanigans, and then there's waking up in a palace filled with half-naked sleeping beasts she's not sure she's ever met. Despite the reservations this sends spinning through her mind, she knows she has to press on.

Her search continues through the labyrinth of the second story. Again, she’s astounded by how massive the place is -- she peers through at least seven doorways that all lead to empty bedrooms. Another one, toward the end of the hall, leads to a gargantuan bathroom. The cold porcelain tiles send goosebumps along her skin as she cautiously steps in, hand fumbling along the wall for a switch. 

When she turns the light on, the reflection that greets her in the wall-to-wall mirror horrifies her: her dark hair is rumpled, clothes wrinkled as if she’s spent the night in a wind tunnel, her skin looks gray, and the red lipstick she’d so boldly donned the night before is smeared around her mouth in homage to a clown’s smile. She quickly tries to fix herself up with pieces of toilet paper -- triple ply, she notes, the good stuff - but there isn’t much she can do to fix the trainwreck that is her face. Even after wiping away most of the messy makeup, there’s still a faint pink stain around her mouth, and the bags beneath her eyes betray just how smashed she had gotten.

Just as she’s about to step back into the hall, a big pyramidal-shaped something on the counter catches her eye. Eyes narrowed, she picks it up, turning over the hefty glass piece in her hands; her thumbs swipes over a golden plaque at the bottom and she reads it aloud to herself under her breath: “American Music Awards 1993...Favorite Heavy Metal Artist...Metallica?”

Her head tilts to the side in confusion. _Metallica?_ Was this...a replica? Of an award? But the American Music Awards only happened last night. What the hell?

“This only gets more confusing,” she says. She squints at the plaque once more, bringing it close to her eyes just to be sure. “Do heavy metal fans even live in mansions this big?” 

Upon looking back at her disheveled reflection, she is reminded that anything is possible.

It occurs to her that maybe she’s still drunk.

Her quest continues, the light from the bathroom illuminating the last trek of her journey. The weird feeling in her stomach is making her need to find Tori and get some answers even more urgent. There is only one room left unchecked in the hall, and she’s beginning to dread that maybe Tori isn’t here at all. Still, she moves quietly to the last door and puts her hand against it, noting that this is the only one that’s been half-closed. Seems promising.

When she pushes it open, it creaks loud enough to plunge darts into her aching head. Inside it is too dark to make out much - she can see the silhouette of two large windows behind blackout curtains, the silhouette of a king bed muddled with slumbering bodies. Maggie’s eyes scan the bodies, trying hopelessly to discern a familiar feature, and she is about to lose hope when she spots a hand dangling out of the duvet in the shaft of hallway light. Her heart jumps when she recognizes the shimmery pearl-colored nail lacquer on the dainty little almond-shaped nails.

“Tori!”

The hand stirs.

Maggie rushes forward into the darkness, beelining for her friend with relief washing over her. “Tori, dude, I have been looking all over for you and I don’t have a single clue - “ Her feet catch on something and she tumbles forward on to the bed, a pained groan coming from the floor. “God, sorry, I didn’t see anyone there. Are you okay?”

A shadowy shape twists on the floor and croaks out, “What the fuck is your deal?”

“Maggie?” Beneath her, Tori is twisting too, pushing herself upright and reaching for the bedside lamp. “What is going on?”

“Fuckin’ bitch,” the voice from the floor puts in.

The lamp clicks. The room is bathed in dim light. Tori is sitting up in the bed, squinting and blinking back at her friend with damp hair hanging in kinky ringlets around her face. She says, “Damn, girl, what happened to you?”

“ _Me?_ I don’t know. What happened to _us?_ Where are we?”

“Um, well…” The blond girl rubs her temple with one hand, still looking around in confusion. She peers at the the man sleeping beside her - from Maggie’s view, just a mop of curly dark hair peeking from beneath the covers - and then glances back down at herself, inspecting her attire. “Well, I remember taking a taxi to Pacific Heights with some guy that said he was a guitarist, and his drunk ass friends, and I am wearing...a Metallica t-shirt.”

Maggie leans forward, saying in a whispered hiss, “How the fuck did you and I manage to get to Pacific Heights? Whoever lives here is some serious metalhead. I was in the bathroom and I found this, this - award thing, from the AMAs last night, and it said on it that it was for - fucking - “

As the cogs begin working in her head, Maggie has trouble finishing her statement. _Oh._

“What’s going on?” The curly-haired form in the bed has started to rise from the pillow. Sheets fall back to reveal an equally-disheveled, equally-squinty man who seems less bewildered to have two girls in his bed than he should be. “How did you guys get here?”

“That is what I’d like to know,” Maggie says. She is beginning to see a trend here: men with long hair, various Metallica-related paraphernalia, copious amounts of alcohol….

“Well, I’m Kirk. Who are you?” He turns to Victoria and studies her closer, and after blinking sleep away a couple more times, recognition seems to fall over his face. “Oh, you? We met at the bar last night. The jukebox? ‘Smoke on the Water?’”

“Oh, shit.” Tori sort of grins. “I still think that’s a good song. My mind can’t be changed.”

Kirk is smirking too. “Still not Deep Purple’s best song. Not by a long shot." 

“Forgive me for not knowing any other songs by Deep Fuckin’ Purple, I am not some sort of weenie.”

“Yes, you are.” Still smirking, Kirk slumps down against the pillow, circling an arm around Tori’s waist. “A Top 40 weenie." 

“So I like Bon Jovi.” She rolls her eyes but can’t seem to lose her smile. “Sue me.” 

“ _Guys,”_ Maggie interjects, still feeling the uneasiness rising in her throat. “Care to fill me in here? I have no idea what happened last night. I don’t even know where we are.”

 “My house,” Kirk replies simply. He rubs his eyes. “I met your friend here at a bar downtown and then you and I and my bandmates all came back here to my house to get smashed, and then...then I don’t know. I assume we got smashed.”

“I remember the cab ride.” Tori says to Maggie, “For some reason, you made us stop at 7-11.”

 “I know, I remember I got….roses.” Maggie turns back to Kirk. “You said ‘bandmates?’”

 “I did.”

 “So, you’re in a band?”

 He grins, obviously amused at her lack of comprehension. “America’s favorite heavy metal artist.”

 The glass pyramid spins in her mind’s eye, the plaque on the bottom in perfect relief: _Favorite Heavy Metal Artist - Metallica._

 With a rock in her gut, Maggie looks at Tori and tries to whisper, “Tori, this man is in Metallica.”

 “What?”

 “We came home with Metallica.”

 Tori snorts, rolls her eyes, looks to Kirk, but then stops when she sees him still smiling deviously. Her eyes travel back down to her shirt, and they start to slowly widen. “Oh, god, I’m starting to remember now.”

 “You gotta tell me how the fuck this happened.” Maggie leans forward and grabs her friend’s hand. “I’m only getting more confused. How - whose ring is this?”

 Maggie turns Tori’s hand over to study the big hunk of metal that had stabbed her in the palm. A fat silver ring in the shape of a skull stares back at her.

 “Hey.” Kirk leans over, taking ahold of Tori’s hand as well. He frowns. “How the hell did you get my ring? I want that back.”

 Tori is looking down at her hand as if she’s seen a ghost. And she’s not saying anything.

 “Tori?”

 “Would you shut the fuck up?” came the voice from the floor. “Some of us are still trying to fuckin’ sleep.”

 “Fuck off, Hetfield,” Kirk says. He’s still looking down at the ring. “Why would I give you this? I love this ring.”

 “We fucked up,” Tori says, ashen white. She looks like she might vomit. “We really fucked up.”

 “Why? What happened?”

 “You aren’t gonna believe me.”

 “What?”

 “You and I…” She looks over at Kirk and raises her hand between them, hoping he will connect the dots. He doesn’t. Both he and Maggie stare at her as if she’s speaking in tongues. “Don’t you get it?”

 Kirk shares a disconcerted look with Maggie. “No,” he says, “Enlighten me.”

 “We, you know - we did the thing.” She’s gesturing desperately with her hands. “We got married.”

 There is a pause. Then, Kirk bursts out laughing. “Okay, you are definitely still drunk.”

 “No, I’m _serious._ ” Tori grabs Kirk’s arm, looking at him severely. The pale hand laid on his dark forearm glints and glares at Maggie, the ring catching in the lamplight. “I remember it.”

 “You’ve got to be joking. Who could have possibly married us? It was just us last night.”

 Some shuffling comes from the doorway, accompanied by a yawn. The three of them turn to find the small heart-faced, brown-haired man lingering on the threshold, still pantsless and sleepy, but smiling.

 “Hey, guys,” he says in a scratchy European accent. “What did I miss?”

 Maggie’s head is spinning. Things are coming back to her, slowly but alarmingly, and she finds her hands are shaking in her lap. The roses, the ring, the bible, standing by the pool...

 “It was him,” Tori whispers to Kirk. She points at the man in the doorway. “He did it.”

 

 

 

**January 26th, 1993**

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault,” Lars insists as he tears a bagel in two. “I don’t remember fuckin’ shit. But if a guy so happens to be ordained, it’s _your_ responsibility to keep yourselves in check, not mine.”

“You could have just said no!” Tori spits back from across the kitchen island. The ice cubes in her glass of water rattle as she slams her hands down. “Why would you ever agree to marry us?”

Beside her, Kirk has his ear pressed to the phone, waiting to be connected with Cliff Burnstein, the band’s manager. His eyes are trained on the ceiling as if he’s hoping he can ascend through it and disappear. 

“I was drunk!” Lars says. 

“So was I!”

“Well I’m not the one who’s newly wedded, so I think we can tell who here is better at holding their liquor.”

“Says the one who vomited into the pool last night. Amateur.”

From Lars’ side of the counter, a recently-awoken and woozy-looking Jason mutters, “It’s not even a legal marriage. There’s no reason to be pitching a fit about this.” 

“The pictures are in the fucking newspaper, Newkid. What does it matter if it’s legal when the whole fucking world knows it happened anyway?” 

Between the five of them sits the ugly proof: the morning’s edition of the Chronicle splayed across the counter with a big fat image of bleary-eyed Kirk holding Tori bridal style on a street corner, complete with the headline _“FOR WHOM THE WEDDING BELL TOLLS: Local Heavy Metal Hero Kirk Hammett Announces Surprise Marriage After AMA Win.”_ The article that follows features some pretty damning details, including Kirk’s direct quote, “I am getting married to my soul mate tonight, and I want the world to know!”

Maggie’s faced is pressed into her forearms, head still pounding with pain. The multiple glasses of water she’s downed hasn’t helped. Voice muffled by the countertop, she says, “I don’t think playing the blame game is going to help anyone here.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one getting crucified for conveniently being an ordained fucking minister.” 

“If you wanna know who’s to blame, it’s that one right there.”

Maggie looks up to see that James has suddenly appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, pointing straight at her with a smug look on his face. The sight of him sends ripples of recollection through her -- his scruffy facial hair, his messy blond locks curling around his clavicle -- it feels like deja vu, like a warm puddle in the pit of her belly.

“She’s the brainchild of this stupid mess,” he says. 

“Me? What the hell did I do?”

Folding his arms, James leans his shoulder against the door frame. “You’re the one who scolded them for sucking face in the bar and said that if they’re so god damn in love, why don’t they get married.” 

“Yeah!” Lars shouts, bagel bits flying from his mouth. “Blame her, not me!”

“I did not,” Maggie huffs with an eye roll. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“You did,” James says. “I remember it crystal clear. I’m the one who told them _not_ to.”

“I was probably being sarcastic!”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t your dumb ass idea.”

James’ eyes bore into hers. Accusing, disgusted. She can feel the heat rising up her throat, the words failing to form in her mouth, all the eyes in the kitchen turning to her as the six of them sit in complete dumbfounded silence. But James’ mocking glare fills her ears with noise.

Kirk suddenly breaks the silence: “Hi, Cliff, It’s Kirk. I, uh, have something to talk to you - oh, shit, fuck, so you already heard.”

An irate voice can be heard yelling over the phone line. With a nervous half-laugh, Kirk presses his free hand to the phone and turns his body away from the group.

Jason’s face falls into his hands. “Well, he’s fucked.” 

“Seriously, Maggie?” Tori turns to her friend accusingly. “Why would you say that? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It was a _joke_ ,” she insists. “Jesus. How was my drunk ass supposed to know this would end up happening? I was as tanked as you were.”

Tori’s face also falls into her hands as she releases a muffled, agonized groan. Across the island, Lars is petulantly chewing his bagel, Jason is shaking his head, and James is still looking straight at Maggie with that patronizing stare.

“Smooth fuckin’ move, kid,” he says.

“If you were so god damn coherent last night, why didn’t you do anything to stop it?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to protest with you sticking your tongue down my throat?”

Maggie’s stomach flips in horror, jaw hanging. “Like I would touch you with a ten foot pole.”

“I don’t know if you forgot, sweetheart, but you _did_ touch my ten foot pole last night. More than fucking once.”

She sputters, her tongue and memory betraying her. It can’t be true. She knows it’s not true. She had woken up completely clothed and in an entirely separate room. But just as she opens her mouth to object, her eyes travel down Hetfield’s bare chest and to the waist of his jeans, where the faintest of red lipstick kisses lead a trail from his belly button and disappear downward into the unbuttoned fly of his black pants. _Her_ lipstick.

Speechless, her wide eyes meet James’ in time to see his shit-eating grin.

“Well, guys,” Kirk says, once more breaking the silence as he slams the phone back on its hook, “Cliff is pissed. Really pissed. He says he’s been fielding calls from the press all morning and that I need to get my ass over to the radio station to sort this shit out before we leave the country tomorrow. _Live 105_ is waiting for me to come make an official statement.”

“What kind of statement?” Tori asks.

He looks like he is being asked to march to his own grave. “A statement of regret. Tell them it was a drunken mistake, another 'Alcoholica' shenanigan and nothing more.”

Tori says, “Oh. Good.” But for some reason, she looks taken aback. “Yeah, that’s what needs to be done. Clear this mess up.”

Lars shakes his head, brushes the crumbs from his fingers. “I don’t envy you, man. Good luck with that.”

“We all should go,” Jason says, “For moral support.”

“No fucking way. I’m out of here,” says James as he buttons his pants and moves to the fridge. “You can fan this fire all by yourself, Hammett.”

“Same here, I don’t want anything else to do with this.” Lars starts buttoning his shirt. “Where are my shoes?”

Maggie looks to Tori, remorse in her eyes, feeling small beneath her friend’s saddened gaze. “I’ll go with you. I’m sorry.” When she takes Tori’s hand, the ring winks at her again, and Maggie covers it with her fingers. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Tori murmurs. She pushes a strand of blond hair behind her ear and looks to the floor. “It’s not your fault.”

 As he passes, James says, “Yes, it is,” then hits Maggie with his shoulder as he goes toward the door.

The remaining four all collect their belongings and put themselves together in order to head to the station. As she moves about retrieving her shoes and wallet, Maggie feels the guilt eating at her, burning hot in her stomach, and though the pieces have all been put together for her at this point, she still finds herself wondering how this could have happened. Was it really her fault? And why did Tori look so suddenly downtrodden when she heard that Kirk will have to denounce the whole thing on the radio?

Once they are all gathered by the door, ready to head out, Kirk grabs his keys and tries to smile through his sigh as he says, “Better hurry up. Don’t wanna be late to my own funeral.” 

*******

Outside of the radio station, the cloudless sky is a perfect venue for the sun to beat mercilessly on Maggie’s back. It’s atypically warm for January, but still not warm enough to be causing the beads of sweat that dot Kirk’s forehead as he paces back and forth before the back door. Maggie watches him, silent and sympathetic, glad for possibly the first time in her life that she’s just the average person and not the celebrity.

Beside her, Jason is leaned against the wall, picking dirt from his nails. He’s so casual in her presence it’s almost as if he doesn’t know that she fell asleep face-first in his ass the night before.

“God, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. It’s Monday morning, people are in their cars headed to work, everyone will have their radio on, everyone is going to be listening to me blabber like a numbnuts, apologizing for a stupid thing that I hardly even remember doing.” Mid-stride, Kirk pulls with both hands at his own hair. “Dammit, Hammett!”

Jason chuckles, repeating quietly to himself, “Dammit, Hammett. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Maggie lamely suggests. “I mean, you aren’t the first famous person to screw up, right? Rock stars are known for these kinds of things. At least it’s just some alternative rock station, not CBS or something.”

“Yeah, but it was already in the papers. Like, come on, the newspaper, of all things? Respectable people read the newspaper, my parents read the newspaper - “ He pauses. “Oh, god. My parents. No, no, no, no.”

He’s back to pacing, this time a light speed. Maggie thinks that soon there will be ruts in the pavement if he doesn’t stop.

“God, I’m such an idiot. The phone is probably ringing at my house as we speak. They’re probably wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into. What _did_ I get myself into?” He turns to them, face twisted with panic. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

Jason looks up, squinting against the sunlight. “What’s the big deal? They know you’re an idiot. It will be fine.”

“But they were so upset about the Rebecca thing, from the start they thought she was a druggie and - and when we divorced they were so happy, and they told me next time I get married I better do the thing right because they would be so disappointed for me to do it all over again.” He buries his face into his palms. “Oh, God, I’m sorry Mom.”

Brows raised, Maggie looks to Jason, then across the parking lot to where Tori is huddled against a payphone, on the phone with her own mother. She’s got her white lab coat on again to protect her from the elements, and the January breeze makes the tail of the coat flap in the wind.

Maggie looks back to Kirk. “Well, Tori isn’t such a bad girl. She just got her doctorate, you know.”

Kirk meets her eyes. “Really?”

She nods. “That’s why we were out celebrating last night. When we met you.”

Kirk just looks at her, as if waiting for her to say more.

“And she...doesn’t do drugs,” Maggie continues. The guilt in her gut still churns, spurring her mouth. “She’s actually a really good kid. No criminal record, straight A’s in school, going to start a residency at a pediatric hospital in a couple weeks. Loves puppies? I don’t know. You could have hitched yourself to a worse stranger.”

Kirk’s still looking at her with that funny look, but now he’s nodding. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess you’re right. My parents can’t really be disappointed by that.”

With a sheepish eye roll, Maggie says, “She’s pretty much perfect.” 

Jason mocks in his best girl voice, “If she’s so perfect why don’t you marry her?” It’s followed up by a wince and a grin when Maggie punches him in the side.

“Now is _not_ the time.”

“No, maybe he’s right. Maybe this could work.” Pacing again, this time slower, Kirk continues to nod while rubbing at his facial hair. “I'll just say we've been dating in secret. We could try this out for a couple months, see how it goes, let all the fanfare die down and just forget it ever happened. Later, when one of us wants to get hitched to someone else, we’ll just stage a divorce and let it go at that.”

Jason’s brows shoot up toward his stubbly hairline. “Does that really sound like a good idea to you?” 

“It was your idea,” Maggie mocks back in a sub-par Jason impression. She sticks her tongue out at him and then rears back when the bassist threateningly clicks his teeth near her face as if he’s going to bite it off.

“No, really, I think….this could work.” Kirk stops in front of them, hands at his sides. Then he peers across the parking lot to where Tori is still on the phone, blond hair twirling in the breeze. A nearly imperceptible smile comes to his face. “Make it easier on her, too.”

Maggie, too, looks to her best friend across the parking lot. She remembers the glossy look in Tori’s eyes when Kirk got off the phone with management, the way she had remained unusually quiet during the car ride to the radio station as her fingers rested very close to Kirk's on the center consul. And while she already feels guilty enough about getting her best friend into this mess in the first place, Maggie thinks that maybe Kirk is right. Maybe this crazy, stupid thing could work.

The door behind them opens, and a bespectacled man pops his head out to say, “Kirk, you’re on in five. You ready?”

Kirk’s gaze meets theirs, flicks back to his wife across the lot, and he nods. “I’m ready.” And he disappears into the studio.

*******

Leaning against the station wall, waiting for Kirk to re-emerge, Jason and Maggie stand in relative silence. The wind blows a strand of her long, straight hair across his face, and he clears his throat as he brushes it away.

“You know,” he says, catching her eye with a sideways glance, “I am pretty sure you fell asleep with your face in my ass last night." 

Maggie averts her eyes again, lips forming a thin line. “Did I?”

“You did.”

“Hm. Didn’t notice.”

“Ah.” She can feel him smirking, feels it burning into the side of her face without even looking at him. “Maybe we should do it again sometime. But, like, the other way around.”

“Not a chance in hell, Newsted.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Again they stand in silence as they wait for Kirk.

 

 

 

 **March 3rd, 1993**  

Five weeks is a long time. Long enough for Maggie to wash the slate of her mind clean and put behind her uh-oh weddings, guilt, glaring blue eyes, and newspaper headlines.

She sells her paintings, does yoga. She has filled her mind back up with work and friends and all she ever hears of Metallica now is on the radio before she’s able to switch the station, or from Tori’s fleeting comments about phone calls with Kirk. The newlyweds talk a couple times a week, Kirk always calling from some hotel in middle America, and from what Tori divulges, it seems all is well. Calm. It is enough to soothe the nasty feeling in Maggie’s belly.

She’s standing in line at the supermarket, a box of chocolate-covered strawberries wedged under her arm. Having just sold her fifth painting of the year, she’s made enough money to pay her rent and treat herself, too. While browsing the shelves, she’d gazed at the wine section for a very long time before purposefully walking away - she can’t stomach the idea of repeating what she’d done last time she decided to celebrate.

As Maggie waits to check out, she’s startled when a voice says in her ear, “Got a hot date tonight?”

She whips around to find Jason Newsted standing behind her, grinning and bald and smug. By now, he knows to dodge the punch she aims at his arm.

“Don’t scare me like that! And no, I am treating myself. I deserve it. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know.” He lifts the six-pack of beer he’s toting. “Just shopping around. Really, though, what’s the occasion? No one just buys chocolate-covered strawberries in the middle of March.”

“I do.” She turns away from him again, stepping back into line. “I recently sold one of my paintings, which is no small feat. So I’m indulging. Like I said, I deserve it.”

“Congratulations, Little Miss Picasso,” Jason says, swooping in again to stand in her line of sight. “Didn’t know you were an artist. You should tell Lars about that, he’d probably get rock hard just listening to you talk about oil paints.”

Maggie brushes away the question she wants to ask - _Lars, drummer of Metallica, likes art?_ \- to instead say, “Well, I am probably never going to see Lars again, so he’ll have to get off on someone else’s art.”

At this, Jason looks confused. “You’re not coming tonight?”

“Coming to what?”

“Bowling.” He grins again. “Lars’ idea.”

“Danes bowl?" 

“That Dane does.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Yeah, you were. I was there when Tori left the voicemail on your machine asking you to go just a few minutes ago.”

Maggie narrows her eyes. She has so many questions - _why were Tori and Jason hanging out, when did the band even get back in town, I thought these little shits were on tour, what are the chances that I would run into this dumbass in the grocery store of all places, didn’t rock stars have assistants to shop for them or something_ \- but instead she blurts out, “Will James be there?”

“Reluctantly, yeah.”

Her expression sours. She turns away again. “I’ll pass on the invitation.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Jason steps back in front of her, hands on her shoulders. “You can’t just pass up on a good time because Hetfield is coming.”

“He’s an ass.”

“Understatement of the year,” he snorts. “But it will be fun. He can sulk in the corner while the rest of us enjoy ourselves.”

“I’m not good at bowling.”

“Well, I’ve got a couple balls you can practice with - “

“Jason!”

He doesn’t dodge the punch this time. He takes it with laughter then grabs her fist, refusing to let go as if holding her hostage until she gives in. “Come on. Your friend really wants you to be there. And you can talk to Lars about painting and shit. He’s even probably got some people he can hook you up with as prospective clients. What do you say?”

She tries to yank her hand from his. He just holds tighter and looks into her eyes.

“Maggie.”

“Okay, fine!” She sighs, finally wrangling her fist free. “I will go. But only for Tori, not for you. So don’t get any ideas, jackass.”

“Perfect. Knew you’d come around. Now, if you’d excuse me.”

He smirks at her and ignores her objections as he steps in front of her in line and sets his six-pack on the counter. 

*******

When Maggie finally finds lane 24, she almost drops her rental shoes when Tori runs up to her and slams her with a hug.

“Maggie! I knew you’d come! You never returned my call." 

“Yeah, well, I was out all day. Work stuff. But here I am!” The enthusiasm in her voice is dripping with insincerity, but Tori doesn’t catch it. 

“I know it’s really short notice, but I didn’t know Kirk was going to be home for the next week and a half, and when he showed up at my door with Lars and Jason, Lars was so adamant that we should all go out and do something _normal_ for once and he hasn’t bowled since he left Denmark when he was a kid, so I immediately said yes, and I just really wanted you to be here.”

Again, Maggie is left with so many questions after hearing Tori’s long-winded monologue, mainly _how and when and why did Tori get so close to all of them? What the fuck?_ Maybe those weekly phone calls with Kirk were going better than she'd mentioned.

“I wouldn’t leave you alone with these heathens, Tor,” Maggie jokes in response.

The mismatched conglomerate that is Metallica is gathered around the control panel at the top of the bowling lane, working intently on typing each person’s name into the scoring system. They all look so funny - Kirk in leather pants, Jason bald and dressed down, James with his half-mullet and Lars wearing a button-up - each donning their tacky, tri-toned bowling shoes. Despite her uneasy feelings about the night ahead, Maggie can’t help but smile inwardly at the sight. _This_ is what a metal band looks like?

“Guys, Maggie is here,” Tori announces as they approach.

“Hey!” Kirk turns, evidently a little tipsy already as he gathers Maggie into a friendly embrace. “Our maid of honor! Nice to see ya, Mags!”

Yep, he’s definitely been drinking.

“Nice to see you, Kirk,” she replies, face splitting into a reluctant grin. His mood is infectious. “Didn’t expect to see you in San Francisco again so soon. Aren’t you guys on tour?”

“Yeah, but we’re off till the twelfth, and as opposed to hanging out in Mexico City for the next nine days we decided to just come home.”

As her eyes drift over Kirk’s shoulder to connect with James’, which are already inspecting her like she is some sort of cancerous growth, she thinks that maybe they should’ve just stayed in Mexico anyway.

“If it isn’t the world’s biggest instigator,” Lars says as he saunters over, hooking an arm around Maggie’s neck. His breath washes over her face; it reeks of Corona. “You’ve got balls showing your face again, kid. With the bad rap you took last time we were all together, I didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Yeah, well, if there’s a place for balls, a bowling alley would be it, wouldn’t it?” she snipes back.

He laughs, letting his hand drop to her back. “Touche. Speaking of balls, come pick yours out. We have been waiting to start for twenty minutes and Hetfield is getting antsy.”

As she and Lars lean over the ball rack, getting all too consumed in a debate on which ball has the best design, she feels a pair of eyes digging daggers into her back. 

 *******  

Her saving grace that night ends up being Lars, in more ways than one. All she has to do is offhandedly mention the painting she’d sold earlier that day, and he is hooked. They sit next to each other and chat animatedly about art, Lars’ favorite painters and the artists he knows personally, the pieces he has in his collection, which medium Maggie likes to use best and the painters she finds her inspiration in. While the discussions seem very insular, she doesn’t let herself feel bad. It gives her an escape from Kirk and Tori’s blatant flirting, Jason’s veiled but persistent advances, and James’ dark cloud of negativity which appears to follow him no matter where he moves through the room.

“Is he always like this?” she asks Lars.

“Sometimes,” he whispers conspiratorially, raising his beer to his lips. “Very off and on. You get used to it. When he gets a little more booze into him, he’ll get better.”

That doesn't seem like a good thing to her. Still, whenever James’ eyes are averted elsewhere, Maggie can’t help but watch him. His granite exterior starts to crack throughout the night, and by the time they’re on their third consecutive game, he’s sitting with his feet propped on the ball rack, discussing ball throwing techniques with the newlyweds. Her eyes travel from the smooth soles of his rental shoes, up his denim-clad legs to where they meet with his square hips, then further up to the blond hair that curls around the collar of his shirt, the blond facial hair that tickles his lips when they turn up into a laugh or a smile. The nice, white teeth. He seems to be a different person entirely when he’s not scowling.

By the eighth frame of the fourth game, Maggie is bowling abysmally. She’s thrown two gutter balls in a row, and as she walks back toward her seat beside Lars, she says, “I really suck at this, guys.”

“Not surprising,” James puts in. It’s the first time he’s spoken to her all night. “You seem to be good at screwing things up.”

She meets his gaze, replicates its steeliness. “I’m sure you weren’t thinking about that when I was screwing _you_.”

The snickers her response gets are gratifying. She plops back down into her seat, sandwiched between Lars and Jason, and Hetfield refuses to comment.

Tori is next, and Kirk stands pressed behind her at the edge of the lane, arms curled around hers as he “helps teach her how to improve her form.” They’re giggling and smiling, doing anything but actually bowling. 

“Sickening,” Lars says, taking another drink.

“They’re having fun,” Jason says. He looks to Maggie and places a hand on her leg. “If anything, you’re the one who needs guidance, eh Pro Bowler?”

“I’ll pass on having Kirk wrapped around my ass like that.”

“I’m sure there’s someone else here that could assist you.”

Her eyes flick up to James, and her face gets hot when she sees him looking back.

Feigning ignorance, she asks Jason, “Who would that be?” 

He bobs his eyebrows at her. “If you’re taking volunteers…”

“I’m not.”

His hand swipes up her thigh as he draws it away. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m an expert.”

“Yeah, Jason handles things with holes in them all the time,” Lars chimes in.

Jason smiles triumphantly at Maggie. Elbowing Lars’ side, she hisses, “Don’t encourage him.”

Across from them, James simply smirks. 

*******

Outside, rain persistently hammers the ground as if the rapture has come. A large puddle fills the center of the parking lot, reflecting shimmers of orange lamplight. The group of them stand beneath the awning by the front door as they wait for the rain to die down. 

Kirk leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and Tori faces him, their hips pressed together. Maggie watches them for a moment, noting the way Tori’s hands occasionally settle on Kirk’s chest as she speaks, the big thick ring still taking residence on her second-to-last finger.

Lars is beside her, chewing loudly on his gum as he continues his monologue about fan brushes: “I mean, my dad would always get pissed at me for fuckin’ playing with them, but how can you not? They’re soft as shit. Like little fuckin’ puppies' fur. I would rub them all over my face and tickle myself with them and shit.”

She smiles sleepily. “They’re great. I probably have way more than any person should. I love fan brushes because they’re perfect for painting water and shit, things like that that require real soft strokes.” 

“James knows all about your ‘soft strokes,’” Lars probes with a grin.

“And her hard strokes,” James says from across the porch. Why is he only willing to speak to her when it's at her expense?

“Fuck you,” Maggie spits.

“You already did.”

From the way his eyes gleam when she takes a step toward him, she can tell that this is what he’s been wanting her to do, to get all worked up and flustered. He takes a step forward too.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says with all the venom she can muster.

“Do you think I give a shit?”

“Do you give a shit about _anything_ other than yourself?”

“I do,” he says. His voice lowers. “But I certainly don’t give a shit about you.”

“Judging by how invested you are in pissing me off, it seems you do.”

“I wouldn’t do it so often if you didn’t make it so damn easy.”

“Is this how you talk to all the girls you’ve slept with?”

“I don’t talk to the girls I sleep with, so you should feel fucking special, princess.”

“Knock it the fuck off, you two,” Lars says, wedging between them and pushing them apart. “This is pathetic.”

Blue eyes, icy in the streetlamp light, give her one last frozen look before he turns his back to her and resumes his post against the support beam. Maggie stumbles backward, guided by a tug on the arm from Jason, who leads her to the opposite end of the overhang and stands between her and Hetfield like a security officer.

And then it becomes so silent that all that swings between them is the sound of raindrops assaulting the ground. 

Her chest heaves, lungs taut with anger. All she wants to do is launch herself across the porch and claw at James’ eyes. Or his chest. Or his back.

“So,” Jason says after a moment, fishing for something to fill the quietude, “It’s pretty wet out here, huh?”

He slides an arm around her shoulder. Maggie shakes it off.

“It’s the only wet thing you’ll be seeing tonight, so enjoy it,” she grumbles.

 

 

 

 **March 6th, 1993**  

The rain persists for days. Typical spring weather in the Bay Area. Maggie, for one, likes to take advantage of dismal weather like this. Perpetual rain provides a larger margin for excuses -- no need to do errands, to make visits or plans, because after all, it _is_ raining. A weak excuse, maybe, but Maggie uses it for all it is worth, hiding herself inside her second-story apartment for three days straight with mugs of coffee and a new canvas she’s just started working on by the window.

This particular Saturday, her phone has been noisier than usual. Already today, she’s received a call from a gallery curator, her mother, a bill collector, and then Tori. Five minutes ago, Tori phoned to gush to Maggie about a date she’s going on with Kirk tonight -- something about a horror film at a theater where Kirk can bring in booze because he knows the owner. The idea of mixing a drunk Tori with jump-scares seems like bad news to Maggie, but she gives her verbal support over the phone anyway. She’s been trying not to seem bitter. For some reason, now that the mess she had started is smoothing itself out, Maggie feels slightly sour -- and she refuses to consider that maybe it’s because Tori is so happy while she herself spends a majority of her time alone.

Nope, definitely not that.

Maggie has just finished mixing a messy emerald color on her palette and is raising her loaded brush to the canvas when the ring of the phone cries through the apartment once more.

She lowers hand and says out loud, “Seriously? Again?”

Setting her brush down, she rushes over to the coffee table on the far end of the couch, halfheartedly wiping her hands on her smock as she does so. With the phone cradled against her ear, she says, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end is familiarly taunting: “Jeez, what were you doing? It took you forever to pick up.” 

“Jason?” Maggie’s brow furrows. “It was like five rings total, drama queen. How the hell did you get my number?”

“How do you think?” 

“Held Tori at knifepoint until she gave it to you?”

Laughter crinkles over the line. “No. I know how to use a phonebook, jackass.”

“Oh.” For some reason, this impresses Maggie. She makes a mental note to give dumbass musicians more credit. “Well, are you going to tell me why you went through the trouble of looking up my name in a phonebook?” 

“If you ask nicely.” 

She rolls her eyes and says nothing.

“Come on. Where are your manners?”

“Seriously?”

Now he says nothing.

“Ugh.” Switching the phone to her other hand, she feels a bit of wet paint squish against the plastic. “ _Please_ , Jason, do tell me why you called me today.” 

“I’m glad you asked.” She can feel the smug smile coming through the phone. “I was wondering what you’re doing tonight and if you’re up for a movie.”

“Listen, there is no way in hell I am going to double date with you and Tori and Kirk to some scary movie so don’t even -- “

“Damn, slow down, tiger. Don’t bite my head off. I am just as eager to sit in a dark theater with those two love birds as you are.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Well, it’s raining. It’s a Saturday night and considering your only friend is occupied for the evening, I figured you’d be free. There’s a Blockbuster near my house, so if you’re up for it, we could...y’know.”

After a small pause, Maggie says, “Yeah? ‘You know’ what?”

“Watch a movie. Duh. If a poor starving artist like you even owns a VCR, that is.”

“If your method of conning me into letting you come over to my place is by using insults, you might want to change up your tactics.”

“It was a joke! Come on, it will be fun.”

It's not the first time he's said something like this to her. “Will it?”

“Sure. You’re lonely, I’m lonely. Let’s be sad sacks together and watch some shitty 70’s comedy and stuff our faces with popcorn or something.”

 _Ouch_. Jason really knows how to hit her where it hurts. She wants to say no, just on the basis of preserving her pride, but as she stares at the rain making connect-the-dots patterns on her window, she can’t deny the empty pit that seclusion has made inside her core. She _is_ lonely.

Maybe she should be nicer to Jason. At the very least, he’s quite perceptive, and when she thinks of how she’s been so brusque with someone who claims to be just as isolated as she is, she feels a twinge of guilt.

Sighing, she presses the phone closer to her ear. “You can only come over under one condition.”

“Name it.”

 “Bring food. _Good_ food.”

 Again, she can feel the grin through the phone. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

 *******  

When Jason shows up outside her door, dripping wet with a damp pizza box in hand and a Blockbuster bag hanging from his arm, Maggie genuinely smiles. It’s been a long time since a man has stood on her doorstep with food.

“You’re on time,” she says by way of greeting. She lets him come in and locks the door. 

“Well, considering how easy it is for you to be irritated with me, I figured being late wouldn’t be a smart move.”

All she can do is shrug. He’s right. She follows him to the living room as he unloads his arms and makes to sit on the couch.

“Hey! Don’t sit your rain-soaked ass on my couch!”

He pauses, mid-sit, looking slightly bewildered. “Okay, so...where do I sit?” 

“The couch,” she says, moving toward the bedroom, “ _After_ I give you a dry shirt.” 

He looks surprised, and she doesn’t blame him. Coming from her, this truly is a gesture of warm hospitality. 

After rummaging in her closet for a few moments, she finds an old t-shirt and re-emerges into the living room, tossing it at him. “Here. This should fit.”

He holds it up, examining the lettering on the front. “You played college volleyball?”

“Why is that so surprising?”

 “Because, you’re, like...the artsy fartsy type.” 

Maggie’s eyes roll as she reaches to open the pizza box. “I wasn’t always the artsy fartsy type. In school I actually majored in nursing. That’s how I met Tori. But after my second year of doing clinicals, I realized that poking people with needles and taking old people’s blood pressure really wasn’t for me. It’s kinda gross. I kept failing half my classes, anyway, so there’s no way I would’ve ever graduated.”

“Interesting.” He smirks as he starts to peel away his saturated t-shirt. “Never would’ve pegged you for a collegiate athlete, though. No wonder you’re such a ball buster.”

She had to laugh at that. Sitting back into the couch, Maggie unabashedly watches as Jason drops his wet shirt to the floor and takes his time pulling the dry one over his lean, pale torso. Her eyes scan his hips and his belly button, the way his tight jeans cinch at his waist.

Catching her looking, he teases, “Like what you see?”

“Lay off.” She blushes and looks away. “I don’t often have men undressing in my living room, okay? Let me indulge myself.”

This remark leaves a wide open space for Jason to throw in his typical lewd comment, but he doesn’t. He just smirks again and starts pawing through the movie bag, which Maggie is grateful for.

“I picked up a handful of movies, so there’s gotta be something you like in here. We’ve got _Blazing Saddles, Animal House, Monty Python,_ or _The Breakfast Club_ , if you’re looking for something slightly more modern. What’s your poison?”

They agree on _Animal House_ first. Jason crouches on the floor in front of the VCR, messing with the remote until the movie begins playing on the TV, and then he joins her on the couch. They sit hip-to-hip, eating pizza in silence as the opening scene rolls. Maggie is surprised to find that she doesn’t feel on edge. It feels normal -- two people sharing a pie in the middle of a rain storm, watching old movies and enjoying each other’s company, despite the odd circumstances of their acquaintanceship. No weird tension, no one else around to make Maggie feel as if she should be prepared at any moment for some sort of verbal attack. 

Once the movie ends, they put another in, this time _The Breakfast Club_. It’s a little angsty for her tastes, but then again, Maggie herself is angsty. A few minutes in, she briefly glances over at Jason -- one foot propped on the coffee table, the other resting on his belly as he stares intently at the television -- and says, “You know, for how surreal this situation should be, I am feeling way too natural doing this.”

He looks over at her. “Surreal how?”

“You know.” She gestures unhelpfully with her hands. “This. Watching a movie on my couch with someone who’s in an internationally-acclaimed rock band.”

He smirks, but it’s only half-hearted. “Rock stars are people too, you know.”

“I guess I never really took the time to consider it. Part of me feels like you’ve got to have something better to be doing right now.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “When we aren’t touring, there’s not a lot for me to be doing. Interviews, getting drunk, whatever. But I do that shit on the road, too. Doing stuff like this is kinda nice.”

She nods. They are silent for a moment.

“Besides,” he adds quietly, “We aren’t really that different. Like I said, I’m just as lonely as you are. If you can believe it.”

 The blue light from the TV puts his features into stark relief, shadows from the darkened room outlining the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the ridge of his brow. He is looking at her, too, and she meets his gaze and says, “I can believe it.”

She turns back to the movie, but not before leaning her shoulder onto his and thinking to herself, _A perfect choice of movie for two people who have nothing and everything in common._  

*******

She doesn’t know how it happens, but by the time the movie is halfway over, she’s went from merely touching shoulders with Jason to full-on leaning into him, legs curled up beside her on the couch while her head rests against his clavicle. It’s easy to tell herself it is an accident. It’s a little more honest to say that she _wants_ to be this close to someone, even if it’s Jason. And with half the movie being filled with sexual innuendos and lusty teenage glares, the weird feelings of need begin stirring in her until she’s not even really paying attention anymore.

When Jason fake-casually puts his hand on her knee, she doesn’t brush it away. Instead, she forces her own nonchalance, tracing his knuckles with her fingertips.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Hm.”

They both continue to stare at the TV. Maggie’s mind is doing cartwheels.

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

She lifts her head to look at him. Looking back at her, his eyes almost look clear in the blue light, like gin in a glass. She looks at his lips. She looks at his eyes. His breath smells like the Sprite he’s been drinking, and it occurs to her that she’s actually close enough to smell his breath.

“Yes?” he says again.

In lieu of an answer, she puts her hand to the back of his neck and brings their mouths together. Jason takes no time in fumbling blindly for the remote and shutting off the TV before pushing her back onto the couch and burying his hands in her hair.

*******

It’s mid-morning when a heavy handed knock at the door brings Maggie to. Despite the fact that there’s a half-naked man pressed against her back, it’s so seldom that anyone ever knocks on her door that she immediately assumes it’s her landlord and bolts up, grabbing for her clothes.

 “Just a minute!” she yells, stepping into her discarded underwear. She grabs for a shirt and tugs it over her head, yanking it down to cover her butt with her heart pounding as she stumbles across the living room. 

When she opens the door, who she finds standing on the threshold makes her blink in shock: it’s Lars Ulrich and James Hetfield, both fully dressed and looking as if they’ve been awake for hours as opposed to mere seconds. She half-hides behind the door, gripping it tight with both her hands.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Didn’t expect us, did you?” Lars says with a cheeky grin. “We’re looking for a certain bassist and were tipped off by Kirk that he might be here somewhere.”

Her stomach sinks. _No, no, no._ “Funny, why would he say that?”

Lars is already poking his head around the door, peering into the apartment. “Nice place you’ve got here, though it’s a little messy -- hey, there he is!”

Before Maggie can stop him, he’s pushing his way into the apartment, Hetfield trailing behind without a word. She lets the door swing closed behind them, then leans back against it, covering her eyes with her hands. “Sure, come on in Lars, make yourself at home.”

“What a pleasant surprise,” Lars says, standing before the couch and grinning down at Jason, clad in only his boxers. “I thought she hated you, Newkid. How’d you manage to get into her pants?” 

“It’s not as hard as you’d think,” James murmurs.

Maggie shoves him as she walks past him. “You know, most people wait for an invitation before barging into another person’s home.” 

“Yeah, well, we’re running a little late for a meeting and Newsted here was nowhere to be found,” Lars says. “You forgot we had to go see Peter and Cliff, didn’t you, Newkid?” 

Rubbing his face with a hand, Jason says groggily, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get the hell up and get dressed.” Lars shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around, then spots the easel near the bay window. “Oh, shit, Mags, is this your workspace? Let me see what you’ve been working on.”

He goes over and starts examining her unfinished painting, picking through her paints and brushes and tools.

Maggie pushes a hand through her hair, exasperated. “It’s not finished yet. It looks like shit right now but I haven’t even really started working on it.”

“No worries, I respect the process." 

Jason has risen from the couch by now, looking frustrated as he looks for his pants in the mess of clothing on the floor. James, who has taken up residence on the wall near the TV, has his arms folded and is pointedly -- _rudely_ \-- staring at the slice of Maggie’s ass that is visible beneath the hem of her t-shirt.

She yanks it down and glares at him. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” 

“I do, but I like the view here.”

It sounds like a compliment veiled as an insult. She wants to slap the smirk off his face, especially when she feels the heat crawling up her neck to her cheeks. Having his eyes on her makes her one part self-conscious, one part warm in places she doesn’t want to think about. What’s worse is that she can tell he knows it, just by the stupid look on his face. She snatches her gym shorts off the floor and shimmies them up her hips to protect her modesty.

“Okay, well, you guys found your bassist, now get out.”

Lars seems reluctant to tear himself from the mostly-finished paintings he’s been inspecting beneath the easel. When he finally moves away, she can see he’s left shoe prints on the drop cloth covering the floor.

“Yeah, we really are late,” he says, “And we don’t need any more reasons for Cliff to chew us out. Let’s go, Newsted.”

The three of them make for the door, and Maggie beats them to it so she can usher them out. She ignores James’ attempt for simmering eye contact as he brushes past her. From the hall, Lars says, “You gotta let me come back over later this week to check out more of those paintings, dude. I know a couple people who might be interested in them.” 

She tries to force her irritation down her throat as she says, “Yeah, absolutely, stop in any time.”

Jason is the last to file out, one shoe still in hand. Before he turns to follow the other two, he stops just outside the doorway and looks at her, an apologetic look in his eyes. His lips are still puffy from the night before, there’s the purplish ghost of a hickey on his neck, and his expression is begging her for confirmation that she isn’t mad at him, that they are on solid ground.

Without a word of adieu, she closes the door in his face and throws herself on the couch.

 

 

 

**March 9th, 1993**

Maggie hasn’t seen the light of day for almost a week. When she emerges from the backseat of the taxi cab, she is blinking and shrinking away from the sun like a vampire. Upon crossing the street and pushing her way through the front door of the record shop, however, she finds the dingy yellow fluorescents inside much more forgiving on her pathetic eyes.

This is the first time she has been here in years, but it looks and smells the same: old paper, dusty vinyl, CDs coated in newly-wrapped plastic. In high school, she would make a pit stop at this store to spend her babysitting money on new records before walking home. She would pore over the older favorites that her Dad had turned her onto -- bands like Thin Lizzy and UFO -- and occasionally indulge in something new and poppy and over-the-top, like Duran Duran. But once she hit college, the visits began to taper off. She had practices to go to, gatherings to attend, boyfriends to nab cassettes from. And once her father died, it was as if this place died here with him.

Today, nostalgia grips her like a warm hand. Maybe a slightly-too-tight warm hand. She feels at home, picking through vinyls she once owned and smiling, but something is tugging hard at her heart, too. She isn’t sure why she came here today. Maybe it’s because she’s been a little lost and lonely and wants to splurge on herself in a place that once brought comfort. Maybe it’s because, subconsciously, music and musicians have been on her mind a lot more lately than she’d like. Regardless, she finds her feet carrying her slowly through the aisles like they used to, finds her hands picking up CDs and flipping the cases over like they’d never forgotten how.

Maggie is standing in front of a rack of used records, running her fingers over the artwork on the cover of _Led Zeppelin II_ , when a voice behind her says, “Of all the people I was afraid of running into in this fuckin’ place, you sure weren’t one of ‘em.”

She almost starts in surprise, but the deep, familiar voice keeps her rooted to the checkered tile as if paralyzed. It takes her a long moment to collect herself and turn around, and once she does, she’s still surprised to see who she already knows will be there: James. Long-legged, fair-skinned, blue-eyed James Hetfield. Mullet, mustache, smirk and all.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, I sure didn’t fuckin’ expect you to be here, either. Trust me.”

As if it’s a natural reaction, her guard is already up. She knows better than to expect civil conversation from him, especially now, when he has her cornered without Lars or Jason around to drag them apart. Yet the smile on his face is lacking its usual malice -- or is she just imagining things? He seems subdued, hands in his pockets, eyes for once refusing to meet hers.

“You like Led Zeppelin?” he asks. Very casual.

She eyes him warily for a moment. Then, she says, “I do. Does that surprise you?” 

“Little bit, yeah.” 

“You seem to think you know what I’m about.”

The eyes roll. “Considering your friend doesn’t know any Deep Purple songs aside from ‘Smoke on the Water,’ I don’t think I’m a criminal for being surprised that you listen to Led Fuckin’ Zeppelin.”

Maggie turns back to the record in hand, once more examining the cover. “I mean, I don’t really listen to them anymore. I haven’t since I sold all my records and shit in college. The drummer’s dead now, anyway.” Running a thumb along the brown paper, she adds, “And so is my dad. He’s the one who showed them to me, so yeah, haven’t gotten around to listening in a while.” 

There is a moment of pause before James asks, “But now you’re reconsidering?”

“I don’t know.” She places the vinyl back on the shelf and steps away. “I kind of just picked it up. Not sure if I came here to buy anything, really.”

James’ nearness to her feels unsafe -- as if at any moment he is going to lunge at her. His body language suggests the contrary, but she takes a cautionary step back anyway. He is eyeing her as if attempting to decode hieroglyphics.

“So you just don’t listen to music or something?”

“I mean, I don’t _not_ listen to music. I just don’t, like, _try_ to listen to it or anything.”

His brow creases. Now he’s looking more like the pissy, heated James she is used to. “Are you serious?”

 “Why does that bother you?”

“You’re really asking _me_ , a musician, why that bothers me?”

“Are you hard of hearing?”

 “Are you some kind of _nun_?”

 Maggie’s mouth tightens as she fights a scowl. “You can’t answer a question with a question.”

“I just don’t understand what kind of person goes about their life not intentionally listening to music, or not purchasing music, or even selling their music away to someone else. That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t see why my life choices concerning music should be such a bother to you. Why are you so invested in what I do, Hetfield?”

“Don’t act like I give a shit about _you_. We both know this is about music.”

Suddenly, Maggie is aware of how close they’ve gotten again. Just like the night at the bowling alley, they are inches from being nose-to-nose and spitting insults into each other’s faces. She can feel the puffs of James’ clipped breaths moving hot against her cheeks.

But the trembling of her fists at her sides feels less like anger, and more like a symptom of something else entirely. In the pit of her stomach, anticipation is simmering, spreading more and more to her limbs the longer she stands there staring at James in silence. The fluorescent lights above are making a shiny golden halo of his hair; she is close enough that she can see every flyaway, every bit of blond frizz. His eyes are outrageously blue. They won’t move from hers.

“You know, the last time two people we know argued about music, they ended up getting married,” she says in an attempt to break the tension. Her voice feels too soft.

“Then we should definitely change the subject.” 

He keeps her gaze for another unbearable beat in time before he suddenly turns toward the CD racks behind him. He picks up a random case and turns it over and over in his hands.

Maggie stares at his back, absolutely dumbfounded. Again, she asks, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?" 

She stares at his back still, this time with narrowed eyes. “Come on, dude.”

The shoulders of his leather jacket shrug. “I just wanted to see what the place was like, okay? Management has me booked to do an interview and a CD signing here next month and I just wanted to come and, like, you know.” He waves a hand around vaguely. “See what was up before I’m trapped here with a bunch of cameras and people and shit.” 

Maggie is too on edge to miss the hint of reluctance in his voice, as if saying it out loud brings to light some secret that he doesn’t want anyone to know. As if needing to see a place before being “trapped” there was embarrassing for him.

“So, you get stage fright?” she asks, bluntly.

“No.” He carelessly tosses the CD back into place before turning to her with a defiant look. Like he’s ten seconds from a freak-out. “It’s not stage fright. I have no problem performing. It’s just the fucking cameras, and the fucking talking, and people looking at me when I’m not playing -- it’s just fucking weird, alright?”

In her head, Maggie thinks incredulously, _James Hetfield, of all people, is shy?_ But she knows better than to say it. So she just gives him her best understanding nod, hoping to God she doesn’t look _too_ sympathetic since he seems to be in the mood to bite her head off.

“For someone who’s not into talking, you sure are doing a lot of it right now,” she replies, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

Apparently it’s the wrong thing. He rolls his eyes, the usual look of annoyance crossing his face once more. “Don’t get used to it, because I doubt it will ever happen again.”

And just as if he’s suddenly remembering how repulsive her presence is, he turns around and walks out of the store, leaving Maggie standing by the record rack feeling empty.

*******

Lars evidently took Maggie’s previous invitation to “come over anytime” quite literally.

Later that afternoon, as she is sitting alone in her living room listening to her newly-acquired copy of _Led Zeppelin II_ , a knock at the door reveals the little Dane drummer standing on her doorstep, chomping noisily on a toothpick.

“Oh, hey. What are you doing here, Lars?” she asks, moving aside to let him in.

He shakes his head, taking the toothpick from his mouth. “Uh-uh. I’m not coming in. You are coming out. Put your shoes on and bring some of your paintings.”

“Okay -- why?”

“I’ve got someone to introduce you to who might like your work.”

When Maggie’s eyes light up in surprise, Lars’ mouth curls into a little shit-eating grin. His hysterical laughter fills the hall as she darts back into the living room and trips over the edge of the rug in a mad dash to find her shoes.

*******

It turns out that meeting a gallery owner is just as nerve-wracking with Lars there to facilitate conversation as it is doing it alone. After an hour and a half of talking straight art mumbo jumbo and discussing a prospective exhibit opening, Maggie leaves the building shaking, as if she’s about to blow apart with nerves. Lars walks casually beside her as they make their way down the sidewalk back to his car, throwing her disconcerted sideways glances.

“Why do you look like you’re about to throw up? That went really well, I think,” he says.

“It did go really well. I just don’t usually get that much attention from people who have the power to make or break my career -- I felt like I was running out of intelligent shit to say at the end there. Jesus.”

Lars chuckles. “You did fine, you nut job. Lighten up. She said she’d call you, yeah? That’s a good sign.”

“But what if she doesn’t call?”

“She’ll call.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

Stopping at the crosswalk, Lars turns to give her an impatient look. “Are you always this neurotic? I know the lady, and when she says she will call, she’ll call.”

Maggie just stares at him and nods, still trembling like a chihuahua.

Lars rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’ll see. You know what will make you feel better?”

They move again, crossing the street in unison as a warm spring breeze blows Lars’ hair into her face. She ducks away from it. “What’s that?”

“Frozen yogurt.”

“Based on what logic?”

“Well, it sure will make _me_ feel better. You’re stressing me the fuck out.”

For the first time all afternoon, she actually manages to laugh.

*******

Lars, evidently, is a frozen yogurt fanatic. He refers to it as “froyo” at least ten times during the car ride and lists off all the shops in the city, asking Maggie which her favorite is -- to which she admits that she only knows one of them by name. After threatening to take her to every single one, they settle on one near Pacific Heights because it has not just froyo, but gelato and Italian ice as well. Maggie refrains from mentioning that she doesn’t know the difference between the three, simply because she doesn’t think she can handle another pedantic frozen yogurt rant. 

The cashiers at the shop know Lars by name, and Maggie doubts it’s because he’s a celebrity. After helping her pick out a flavor and agonizingly deliberating over what to get for himself, they end up eating their froyo at a window seat. Cars lazily roll by on the street, and if not for Lars’ unusually raucous style of eating, everything is quietly serene.

“So,” Lars says with a smack of his lips, “You seen much of your boy toy since the other day?”

 _Boy toy?_ Maggie swallows a mouthful of mango yogurt hard, trying to compose her expression. There’s no chance in hell she’s going to reveal anything about the stomach-churning encounter in the record store earlier. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t called Jason up again for a second helping?”

This time, Maggie coughs just so she doesn’t choke. _Jason?_ Why is James the first person that comes to mind when she hears the words “boy toy?” Lars looks pleased, as if the comment was meant to make her uncomfortable. Thank God he doesn’t know why it does.

“No, no way,” she says with an emphatic head shake. “That is never, ever, ever happening again. God.”

“You sure? He seemed real cozy on your sofa this weekend. Though I’m sure he’s more interested in trying out the bed next time.”

“Piss off. It was a spur of the moment thing -- we were watching angsty movies and it was raining and it was dark and -- you know, I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to you, you jackass, but believe me when I say that it was a one-time thing.”

Lars is smirking, brows raised skeptically. “Does Jason know that?”

“He will,” she says with finality.

“Ouch.”

“Why should it matter, anyway? You guys are leaving again in like, three days. You’ll be back out on the road and he’ll get so much groupie pussy that he won’t even remember I exist. Hopefully.”

Lars shrugs and spoons more yogurt into his noisy mouth. “The kid is a softie. I guarantee when we are back here in four weeks, he’s gonna call you up and ask to come over for a bubble bath and a slumber party.”

Maggie just groans, putting a hand to her forehead. “Good. Fabulous. You know, ever since you four fucks came into my realm of consciousness, things have suddenly become a lot more fuckin’ complicated.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“I could kill Kirk for ever approaching Tori in the first place.”

“Are you sure _he_ approached _her_?”

“No, but it’s easier to blame him." 

They eat in silence for a few long moments. When Maggie looks up from her half-empty cup, she can see the visible signs of mischievous gears turning in Lars’ mind, a tiny smirk coming to his lips.

“You know, if you’re so pissed at Kirk, you could get revenge.” After a beat, he adds, “His house isn’t too far from here.”

Maggie cocks a brow. “Yeah? Revenge how?”

Shrugging, Lars looks out the window and across the street. “There’s lots of stores on this street. I’m sure one of them has got to have something suitably malicious.”

Maggie can’t stop her own grin from spreading across her face.

They’re still grinning when they enter the grocery store down the block, and positively beaming when they exit ten minutes later with two bags of water balloons. They’re snickering as they fill the balloons at a spigot in the alley behind the store, and downright cackling as they creep up to the iron fence that encloses Kirk’s backyard. When they see him lounging by the pool, it’s all they can do not to burst out laughing, and by the time they begin their rapidfire attack, all fifty water balloons bombarding their target one after another, they are howling hysterically. They are laughing so hard that they don’t notice the cameraman a few dozen yards down the street, snapping pictures the whole time.  
It’s fun, but Maggie might have forgotten about it completely if it isn’t for the magazine article that Tori shoves in her face a week later. With the headline _“DON’T TREAD ON ME: METALLICA DRUMMER LARS ULRICH PRANKS BANDMATE WITH NEW GIRLFRIEND”_ plastered across the top of the page, the whole two-paragraph snippet stuns Maggie stupid. She reads it twice and feels sick. The featured picture of she and Lars clutching each other tight and giggling hysterically is just the cherry on top.

 

 

 

 **April 19th, 1993**  

The smell of car exhaust fumes seeping through the open windows is beginning to make Maggie feel sick. Or maybe it's just nerves. The sky through the sunroof is a brilliant cornflower blue, and the cab driver is humming along merrily to a Bob Marley song, but neither of these things dissolve the hard pit of dread forming in her stomach. She's going to be late and she knows it.

For some reason, there is a traffic jam in the middle of town. It's midday on a Monday -- “just the lunch hour rush,” the cabbie says -- but the long line of standstill cars defies the typical traffic patterns of any Monday at any time in San Francisco. She's tried to rack her brain for a random weekday event she's maybe forgotten about that could cause this type of clusterfuck, but came up with nothing. Maybe she should chalk it up to shit luck, or maybe the cosmos gathering their power to ruin what is possibly the single most important day of Maggie's career to date.

 _“Is this love, is this love, is this love that I'm feeling?”_ Marley croons over the radio.

She slumps her head back against the seat. _No, it certainly is not._

The dashboard clock reads ten minutes to four. If she isn't able to travel the next eleven blocks down the street in those ten minutes, she's screwed. Goodbye important meeting, goodbye gallery exhibit she's been working on for the past month, goodbye potential buyers and next month's rent and fame and glory and success. She has put in too many hours of painting and perfecting to lose it all because of some divine roadblock.

“Is there another route we can take?” she asks, knowing it's futile.

The driver's eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror. “If you'd like, yeah, but it might take just as long to turn around and maneuver around this jam than it would to just sit and wait it out.”

She sighs, closing her eyes. Then, collecting all the will she can muster, she begins gathering her things. “I'll just get out here and walk. How much is it?”

Maggie pays the fare and then climbs out, nearly toppling over as she lugs her enormous portfolio out behind her. An event like this calls for fancy dress, and the heels she's donning have gone so long without use that she can hardly remember how to walk in them. Regardless, she straightens her skirt and sets off down the sidewalk with as much confidence as her anxiety will allow.

Even the sidewalks are packed. Usually, this type of foot traffic downtown is reserved for weekends or special events, but people are everywhere, seemingly headed in the same direction she is. She follows the flow of the crowd, moving parallel with the long string of cars on the street and praying to an unknown god that she can make the eleven block trek at light speed.

Really, if today wasn’t _the day_ for her, she would be able to recall why this street was suddenly so chaotic. But her mind is so cluttered with nerves that when she finds herself in the heart of the mess -- stuck in a mob of people all filed in a sloppy line outside of a familiar record store -- she still doesn’t understand what everyone is waiting around for. She begins squeezing through gaps in the crowd, determined to push her way to the gallery, when she’s suddenly stopped by a wooden barricade guarded by two security officers right in front of the store.

“Excuse me,” she says to one of the two, barely polite, “I really, _really_ need to get through. I’m really late to this thing and it’s just a few blocks down the street -- can I just slip by?”

The barrel-chested man examines her attire with only an ounce of curiosity, then says, “You’ll have to wait in line for the signing just like everybody else, miss.”

“Signing? I’m really just trying to get by. I’ve got something really important to get to and I’m going to be really, really late.”

“I’m not allowed to let anyone through, miss,” he maintains. The man hardly looks apologetic, and Maggie is beginning to feel frantic. “If you need to get by, you’ll have to go around.”

“You don’t understand.” Desperately, she holds up her portfolio as evidence of her plea. “I have a gallery opening in less than ten minutes and it’s my first one ever and if I don’t make it by the time it starts, I am going to be in super big trouble and I really can’t afford to blow this. Please, please, is there anything you can do?”

Now he’s looking a little bit more empathetic, but he still gives her a reluctant shake of the head. “I’m sorry, but we’ve been told to keep this section of the street secure for the record signing. I wish I could help.”

Maggie’s heart is pounding and plummeting all at once. The sun is beating down on her dark hair, sweat is forming along her back, and she can feel the knot of anxiety twisting tight inside her. In a panic, she looks past the man to see if there is anyone else nearby -- maybe head of security, or the shop owner, anyone who can help -- and suddenly all the nerves drop out of her when she sees a mulleted ragamuffin sitting on a stool by the door, a Sharpie and CD in hand.

James. The person signing records here is _James_.

A fury she’s never felt boils up in her throat and instantly erupts. 

“You fucking asshole!” The scream is loud enough that it cuts through the commotion, through the crowd, and dozens of eyes instantaneously turn on her. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s you? This whole fucking traffic jam is because of _you_?”

James’ eyes search the crowd, momentarily wide with surprise, but the instant they connect with hers they soften again into something like smug amusement. “Hey, Maggie,” he calls. It’s the first time she can ever recall him addressing her by name. Somehow, this infuriates her more.

“I’m going to be late to my first gallery opening ever, and it’s all because you’re sitting here scribbling on some fucking CDs?”

“This is my job,” James shoots back, “Which seems to be going a lot better than yours at this point.”

She’s making a scene. She’s aware of it. But with every nerve ending in her body thrumming with anger, she can’t bring herself to care. The security guard has preemptively put an arm up as if he knows she’s going to barge through, but she manages to duck underneath it with speed that surprises even herself and slip through a gap in the barricade.

“How the fuck do you manage to ruin everything for me?” Though she’s got more than half a mind to march over and slap him with all her strength, she instead makes her way past him as fast as her footwear will allow. “Somehow you pick the fucking perfect time to drop in and make me late to the absolute most important fucking day of my entire fucking life.”

James watches her as she goes, grinning like he’s planned it all along. Of course, he hasn’t, but taking the blame for the massive inconvenience seems to suit him just the same. Around them, the security officers and crowd are in a frenzy.

“Want a CD for the road?” James offers, waving one over his head.

“Fuck yourself, Hetfield.”

At her retreating back, he cheerily calls, “Your boyfriend is in town, by the way. I’ll tell Lars that you send your love.”

Maggie doesn’t even bother responding to the remark. She’s already halfway down the street, crossing to the next block at a fast clip.

She makes it to the gallery five minutes late, sweaty and panting, her feet aching.

 

 

 

**April 24th, 1993**

The front of the boutique is lit up with pink neon, the display windows stuffed with frilly undergarments hanging from clotheslines. It’s not a place Maggie has ever imagined herself being, yet here she is, approaching the front door with Tori excitedly taking the lead.

“I can’t believe I’m entering a place like this,” Maggie says as her friend opens the door. Even the doorbell that chimes when they step in sounds fluffy and feminine. 

“Oh, quit being a prude,” Tori shoots back.

Maggie rolls her eyes so hard they practically hurt. “Probably the first time in my entire life I’ve ever been called a prude, but okay.”

“Listen, the stuff here is way better than the Fruit of the Loom bullshit you’re probably wearing right now, so indulge yourself.” She continues before Maggie can object, “Besides, I’m a wife now. Or sort of a wife. I want to get some freaky, strappy thing that’ll make Kirk’s dick remember me when he goes back on tour in a couple days.”

Maggie thinks that just about anything in this store will do. They’re surrounded by shelves and elaborate displays of all sorts of lacey, satiny, shimmery lingerie that would be sure to make Tori’s figure difficult for Kirk’s dick to forget. Tori immediately begins picking through the offerings, feeling fabrics and lifting pieces up to examine closer. She seems genuinely excited -- and why shouldn’t she? It’s been three months, and somehow this crazy arrangement of hers and Kirk’s has developed into something that Maggie can identify as true love. Or at least eager mutual adoration. She hasn’t seen Tori this enamored with a person in years.

It works for Maggie, too -- she can selfishly tell herself that she’s not to blame for ruining her best friend’s life with a stupid, drunken suggestion of matrimony.

She decides to peruse the store as well, since she is stuck here anyway. Truthfully, it’s not so bad. She never does things like this for herself. The most thought she typically puts into her underwear selection is whether or not it’s clean when she puts it on in the morning. And she finds that a table filled with panties at the back of the store piled with things that she wouldn’t mind putting her ass in, even if she’s the only one who will see it.

 It turns out that Tori needs help picking out the perfect piece -- not that Maggie knows any better as to what Kirk’s lingerie preferences are. But they fill Tori’s arms with flouncy garments and then take to the dressing room, where the girl puts on a faux fashion show of everything she tries on so that Maggie can scrutinize and assess the merits of each piece.

When they go to checkout, the girl behind the counter seems to be eyeing them with a little more interest than feels warranted. She’s stifling a smiling while flicking her eyes between the two, paying little attention to the work her hands are doing bagging the clothes. Maggie tries to catch Tori’s eye questioningly.

“Sorry,” the clerk says, almost looking like she’s going to blush. “I don’t mean to ogle you guys like a fan girl, and I might be wrong, but aren’t you the Metallica guitarist’s wife?”

Tori’s eyes widen, but she appears to be just as much delighted as she is surprised. “I guess -- I mean, yeah, I am. How do you know?”

The clerk shrugs, now sporting a full-blown smile. “They’re my favorite band, and I keep up with the news. I saw the article about your marriage in the paper a few months back and nearly lost my cool. If I’d known he was shopping for wives in the area, I would’ve went out more.”

Tori takes the joke with laughter. It’s at this moment that Maggie spots the gawdy skull ring still adorning her friend’s left ring finger.

“Sorry you didn’t get your shot,” Tori says, “But you’ve got a good eye. I’m surprised you recognized me.”

“Trust me, I keep up on this stuff. Like I said, they’re my favorite.” The girl’s eyes then move to Maggie, and her brows raise knowingly. “You’re Lars Ulrich’s girlfriend, too, right?”

Maggie’s heart skips just a beat, and she shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, that’s just a rumor, actually. We’re friends.”

The clerk hands over her bag and gives her a skeptical look. “Just a rumor?” 

“That’s all it is,” Maggie confirms steadily. But she’s getting a bad feeling. 

“You don’t have to deny it, it was confirmed earlier this week, right?”

She’s getting a really bad feeling now. “By who?”

“James Hetfield. Someone asked him about it at his record store appearance a couple days ago, and he confirmed that you and Lars were really dating. He said you guys had just wanted to keep it a secret, but I guess the cat is out of the bag now, huh.”

The two friends turn to meet each other’s shocked gazes. Tori’s eyes look so wide they’re about two blinks from falling out and rolling across the counter.

“That motherfucker,” Maggie whispers.

*******

It’s no surprise, really, that when Maggie’s phone rings later that afternoon, Lars is on the other end of the line. This type of synchronicitous stuff happens too often lately for her to find it strange anymore.

“What’re you doing this afternoon, Mags?” he asks. Already, she can hear him chewing on something, probably a fat wad of Double Mint gum.

She knows that if she tells the truth, he’ll rope her into some weird adventure that she’s not sure she’s ready for. But she is also sick of staring at the painting she’s been working on, so she replies honestly: “Nothing really. Why?”

“I’ve got a babysitting gig that Cliff Burnstein conned me into, and if I’m gonna get through it without shooting myself, I need some moral support.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

 Lars sighs as if just the idea of it pains him. “Well, Hetfield is currently at _Rolling Stone_ for a cover story they’re doing about him -- why it’s about him and not _me_ is baffling, but that’s beside the point -- the point is, he’s plastered already and is gonna need a ride home by the time he’s finished.”

This already sounds like Maggie’s personal hell, but she allows Lars to finish his explanation.

“To top it off, Cliff wants me to go wrap up some logistical work about a piece they’re doing next month about the tour, which, if you know me, you know I love logistical shit. It’s my forte. Like, really, I should be the one managing the band, that’s how fuckin’ good I am at it. But truth is, the editor at _Rolling Stone_ is a god damn bore and every time I talk to him, I get stuck there for hours longer than I’d like to. I could talk about dates and numbers all damn day but this guy just sucks all the pleasure right out of it. I’d rather lay in an early grave than be stuck with that tart.”

Diatribe finished, he snaps his gum a couple times, waiting for a reply. When the line stays silent, he says, “Mags? You there?”

Maggie has the phone wrapped tight in her hand, mind tumbling over Lars’ words again and again. James Hetfield, drunk and smoldering in front of a camera; James Hetfield, Asshole Extraordinaire, talking himself up to a journalist so he can get a front-page issue in Rolling Stone. Or, if he’s actually as adverse to talking to reporters as he made it seem during their conversation at the record store, then James Hetfield being a quiet, moody prick and drinking way too much beer as a journalist tries to pry quotes out of him. Either way, the idea isn’t too appealing. Especially after what she’d learned at the lingerie store earlier.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she says into the phone. She rubs a hand across her eyes. “Was that proposition meant to sound appealing to me? Because you really didn’t sell it very well.”

“Please? We can get froyo and dick around while he does his shit. I just really, really need a wingman on this one or I might go insane.”

 _I will probably go insane, too,_ Maggie thinks. But she also can’t help but think of how Lars helped her get the in with gallery owner last month. Despite her tardiness, the opening of the exhibit went well, and her prospects were already seeming a lot more promising in the few days that had elapsed since. She really does owe him this.

“Fine. I’ll go, but reluctantly. How long do I have to get ready?”

*******

The office is much smaller than Maggie had imagined. Apparently, _Rolling Stone_ had relocated their home office to New York many years prior, so instead of the intimidating high rise she’s been expecting, she instead finds herself trailing into a single-story brick building behind Lars 

The drummer had meant it when he said he’d wanted to spend as little time as possible chatting with the on-site editor. Maggie is only sitting in the hall for fifteen minutes tops when Lars re-emerges from the office he’d disappeared into, offering an excuse along the lines of “It’s been nice seeing you again, sorry I can’t spend more time, but I’ve got a guest with me and it really would be rude to keep her waiting, thanks again.”

When he collects Maggie from the armchair she’s been waiting in, he gives her a look with raised brows. “Dodged a bullet there. You wanna get something to drink?”

It’s obvious he’s been here before. He leads her to a staff fridge and loads an arm with a few beers, clearly not concerned about who they belong to. After cracking one open for her, he uses his free arm to link with hers and pull her down another hall.

“So, the guy told me Het has finished the interview, he’s just doing the photo shoot now. Thank god. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to sit around and mince words with James, but I’m glad we missed that part. The man is so god damn blunt sometimes.”

“Unlike yourself,” Maggie jokes. She doesn’t see the point in revealing her recent interactions with James -- the record store, outside the record store, the news she’d learned at the lingerie store earlier -- because she doesn’t really want to reveal how much James gets to her. It’s almost embarrassing. “You know, with you leading me around by the arm like this, people really will believe that we’re dating.”

Lars snorts and rolls his eyes. “Stupid tabloid bullshit. Not that they’re really to blame for assuming we were fucking. After all, I am a drummer. I bang stuff a lot.”

This makes Maggie laugh. “Oh god, you’re the worst." 

He takes them to a door that opens into a large, high-ceilinged room that is mostly empty save for a smattering of random colored backdrops, tall lighting rigs, and a miscellaneous smattering of furniture. A couple people are buzzing about, moving here and there with equipment. Of course, in the middle of it all is the man of the hour, all dressed up -- or dressed _down_ , Maggie thinks breathlessly -- for his photoshoot.

Upon seeing him, Maggie is certain that this is a realm of hell personalized just for her. 

Most of him is the same as usual: tousled blond hair that looks as if it defies brushing, beard rimming a square jaw that clenches ever so slightly when he sees her, thick fingers laying over the neck of the guitar that hangs from a strap over his shoulder. But what he’s wearing, and what he isn’t, is what makes Maggie’s heart forget to beat for a moment: he’s shirtless, bare chest tanned and toned in a way that leads her eyes straight down it and right to the waistband of his leather pants, just below his belly button. And the pants, the pants cling to him in such a way that she wishes she could remember what it’s like underneath them.

And in the midst of her awestruck inspection of him, she looks back to his face and realizes he’s looking right at her, the characteristic mischievous grin already set in place. She’s caught so off guard by his appearance that she actually feels herself blush before she hurriedly looks away.

“Well, welcome to the main attraction, folks,” Lars says, making his way over to one of the spare couches. “I thought this was _Rolling Stone_ , Het. You look like you’re getting ready for your centerfold spread in _Playboy._ ”

“Like the outfit?” James readjusts the guitar strap on his shoulder, then reaches for the open can of beer on the table beside him. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing your girlfriend.”

“Maggie? She’s my assistant.” Lars cracks open his own can. “I knew I’d have to come and collect your drunk ass and didn’t want to have to deal with you alone, so I brought back-up.” 

“Smart guy,” James says with another sip.

Maggie suddenly remembers her own beer, and gulps half of it down, thankful that Lars has brought plenty.

“You seem to show up everywhere, don’t you, Picasso?” James asks. When Maggie makes eye contact with him, she can see the devilry in his eyes, already trying to get a rise out of her.

“Since you enjoy my presence so much, I figured I’d bless you with it again today. Give you something to look at while you work.”

His grin spreads. “Seems like you’re the one who’s doing all the looking here.” 

“Was I staring?” She can feel her face heating up again. “I was just trying to figure out how you got into Axl Rose’s wardrobe.”

This remark has Lars cracking up, and she smiles around the rim of her can as she takes another long drink. If James wants to take swings at her, Maggie will gladly step in the ring, too.

The photoshoot commences. A photographer positions James in front of a backdrop, and Maggie can tell how reluctant he is to do it, but he cooperates and poses, turning this way and that, making one expression after another.

“Probably helps that he’s drunk,” Lars comments, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “I’m surprised he even got through the interview. You can’t get that man to open up for shit.”

Midway through his parade of poses, James holds up two middle fingers for the camera, then looks their way and throws an extra middle finger meant especially for Maggie. She has to resist the urge to ball her fists. There’s no way in hell she’ll give any indication that his antics bother her.

She still hates him for giving stock to the rumors about she and Lars. And she realizes now that this is the perfect opportunity to throw it back in his face.

“Say, James,” she calls out, theatrically leaning into Lars’ shoulder and lazily throwing her legs in his lap, “How does it feel to be a third wheel?”

He gives her a look, but says nothing.

“Must be real awkward having to hang out with your drummer and his _girlfriend_ ,” she adds, putting a hand in Lars’ lap. 

Again, James glares but says nothing.

For some reason, Lars seems to love this game. He takes the bait and circles an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep the heavy petting to a minimum during the car ride home,” he adds.

James continues to follow the photographer’s directions, pretending he can’t hear a thing, but the tightened muscle in his jaw betrays him. It makes Maggie smile harder.

Once the photographer begins packing his camera up, James gathers his belongings as if he can’t wait to get out of there. By this time, Maggie has drank a majority of the Budweiser that Lars pilfered, so she’s feeling rather pleased with herself as she wanders over with the drummer at her side.

 “Ready for mommy and daddy to drive you home?” she says, leaning drunkenly against Lars.

James is buttoning up his shirt and refusing to make eye contact. Even from here, Maggie can smell the booze on him. “You like it when she calls you daddy, don’t you, Lars?”

“I much prefer the implication that you’re the unruly child and we’re the parents,” Lars replies.

Needless to say, the car ride to James’ house is a little tense. He sits in the back in silence, refusing to react when Lars makes a joke about thinking the “baby has fallen asleep in his carseat.” Eventually, however, he’s drunk enough that he does fall asleep. Despite everything, Maggie feels a place inside of her soften when she sees his expression in the mirror. His eyes are shut, lashes casting little shadows on his cheeks as a stray tendril of hair flutters across his face in the wind. Like this, he almost seems sweet. 

When they pull up to his house outside of town, the three share no parting words as he collects his guitar case and gets out, slamming the car door shut. But her heart does flutter a little when she sees a dog run out the front door and attack James with kisses when he gets there.

 

 

 

**June 4th, 1993**

The voicemail Maggie finds on her phone when she gets in from the grocery store comes as a pleasant surprise. It’s a message from Lars, short and sweet: _“Sup, Mags? Housewarming party tonight and my new place. Kirk and Tori already said you could carpool with them so I will be personally offended if your hermit ass doesn’t show. Clothing optional.”_

So the boys are back from tour again, for now. Maggie had known they’d be back sometime soon, but this comes as a shock, just as the housewarming party does. Lars had mentioned a couple months back that he was in the process of upgrading to a mini mansion somewhere in the suburbs, but all of a sudden it’s finally happening. He always works so fast, she thinks.

To say that coming home to the message warms her heart is a little sentimental, but entirely true. She’s been lonely the past few weeks. Working without reprieve has left little time to spend with Tori, and admittedly, San Francisco feels a little lonely without the boys around. She misses Lars. Maybe she even misses Jason a little, wary as she is of his affection.

She finds herself in the bathroom later that night, struggling to apply her lipstick because she’s smiling so hard.

*******

“Jesus Christ. Lars didn’t mention that he’d moved into the fuckin’ Taj Mahal,” Kirk says as they ascend the steps. He moves to knock loudly on one of the two french doors, then steps back to join the girls as they examine the house’s facade: huge arched entryway, floor-to-ceiling windows lining the walls, a line of archways forming a covered path that winds alongside the house. And plants, plants everywhere. 

“This feels like visiting my grandma in Sicily,” Maggie murmurs in awe.

Tori shoots her a look. “You’ve been to her house in Sicily?”

“No, but this is just as good.” Peering inside, she adds, “Probably better." 

When the doors swing open, it’s not Lars, but Jason who stands on the other side. The three pile in for greetings and hugs, but when Jason gets to Maggie, he stops short to give her a wry once-over.

“Well damn,” he says, pulling her in for an embrace and then holding her at arm’s length again. “I was eager to see you, but I didn’t know I had _this_ to look forward to.”

Grinning bashfully, she tugs down the short hem of her dress just a titch. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“No way. It’s just enough.”

The four of them follow Jason’s lead through the foyer, Maggie highly aware of his hand on the small of her back.

“Are you the welcoming committee?” she asks. “Because I must say, the flattery is a nice touch.”

“What can I say? It’s my specialty.”

The house is immaculate and extravagant, tastefully excessive just like Lars himself. Everything is white: the marble floors stretching throughout the entire first floor, the spiraling staircase to the left of the foyer, the walls and arched doorways, the vaulted ceilings. It’s the last thing Maggie would expect of a metal musician, and in a way, that personifies Lars, too.

“This place is amazing,” Tori says. She’s got Kirk’s hand gripped in both of hers, mouth open and gawking. “I thought _your_ place was nice, baby, but he’s really showing you up. Wow.”

Kirk rolls his eyes. “I would never try to compete with Lars. He’s too over-the-top for me to ever keep up.”

Maggie, for one, agrees. It _is_ over-the-top. But she finds herself amending that thought when Jason leads them through the next two floors and to the very top, where a penthouse-style room filled with people seems to be the center of the party. The room sports more white flooring, a long black bar behind which a bartender is making drinks, more floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the impressive back veranda and the view of the Bay. But Maggie can’t help but ogle a massive neon sign adorning the nearest wall: it’s the serpent symbol from the cover of their most recent album, lit up and larger-than-life. It's more than just over-the-top -- it's unashamedly indulgent.

Of course, Kirk is grinning. “That is dope! I need to get me one of those!”

“Oh my god,” Maggie whispers. “Where am I?” 

From behind her, Jason leans in close to speak over the sound of the crowd. “Do you want a drink?” 

“I think I _need_ a drink. I am so out of my element.”

He takes her over to the bar and gets the bartender’s attention, ordering them both vodka sodas. As she waits, Maggie surveys the scene. Though she’d anticipated a crowd, this was more than she’d mentally prepared for. Clusters of tipsy, beautiful people are scattered about the room, laughing and chatting over the loud music playing from a stereo system mounted from the ceiling. She knows none of them, and the thought makes her stomach swirl nervously.

Turning back to Jason, Maggie tugs on his sleeve. When he looks over his shoulder, she says, “Can you order a couple rounds of shots, too?" 

His brows raise. “It’s that kind of night, huh?” 

“I figure we are going to get plastered either way,” she yells over the music. “Might as well expedite the process.” 

*******

It’s over an hour later when she wanders downstairs in search of the host. She’s so tipsy by this point that when she finds him showing off his grandiose new kitchen to a couple of unknown party-goers, Maggie forgets all decorum and runs up to him for a full-bodied hug. 

Laughter rings in her ear, familiar and also obviously drunk, as Lars squeezes her and lifts her feet off the ground. “I was wondering when you’d be showing up!”

“I’ve been here this whole time!”

“Took you long enough to find me.” He sets her down, and moves to draw away, but she squeezes him back against her.

“I don’t wanna let go. I’ve missed you, you fuck.”

Lars laughs again, then diplomatically excuses himself from the couple he’d previously been talking to. Once Maggie finally releases him, he brushes a strand of his long hairs from where they’ve gotten tangled in her mascara-coated lashes.

“I’m assuming you’re gonna want the full tour?”

“Yes. What the fuck is this place? I feel like I’m in Caesars Palace.”

He grins wryly. “That’s the point.”

He shows her around the second floor, flaunting his bougie white couches and beautiful bayside views, shows her the master bedroom and the adjoined bathroom, which features a beautiful black bathtub with a lit-up aquarium as a backdrop. Lars decides that all this talking has worked up his appetite, so he brings her back through the bedroom to have a smoke on the balcony. When they step out into the cool nighttime air, Maggie’s eyes are surprised to find a figure already leaning against the railing, cigarette in hand.

“Hey, Het,” Lars says. He joins his bandmate to lean against the banister. “I knew you were floating around here somewhere. Figures this is where we’d find you.”

James huffs half a laugh and nods his head, and instead of replying, offers Lars his lighter in greeting. Hesitantly, Maggie joins them near the railing, heels clicking on the stone as she makes her way over. It seems too loud, too likely to draw James’ attention, as if she could get away with simply going unnoticed. As she leans back against the railing, the cold stone chilling her palms, she meets James’ eyes and can’t help but notice how they seem all too glittery in the moonlight.

“Hey, James,” she says in an attempt to forego any awkwardness.

He simply nods and takes another drag. He seems to be in one of his quieter moods tonight, which suits Maggie just fine.

The three of them stand there for a few minutes, Lars babbling about closing costs and house-related bullshit over his cigarette before he suddenly says, “Oh, fuck, I forgot to put toothpicks on the bar, I’ll be right back,” then shoves his cigarette at Maggie and dashes off.

Maggie can’t help it; she laughs as he disappears, shaking her head. “Only he would think toothpicks are a necessity at a party.”

She doesn’t expect James to respond. More than anything, it is simply something to say, a sentence to fill the air between them. But to her surprise, he smiles small behind his cigarette before saying, “What else is he supposed to obnoxiously chew on while he talks to guests?”

Maggie chuckles. She stares at the swimming pool below them as she drags from the cig that Lars has left her with. From the floor above, music seeps from the windows, muffled and muted, a nice ambient noise to fill the space between the two on the balcony as they smoke in silence.

After a moment, she says, “I didn’t think you were the ‘party’ type.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Too many people. But there’s free booze.”

“That there is.” Maggie mentally notes that she really is much drunker than she anticipated being -- she must be, because she feels far too comfortable in James’ presence right now.

“Besides,” he adds, “I was pretty interested in seeing what this place looked like. Knowing Lars, I had a feeling it would be ridiculous. I was right.”

“Everything he does is ridiculous.”

“Maybe that’s why you two make a good pair.”

Maggie turns to peer into his shadowy face, expecting to see a smug smile or a malicious glare. But all she sees is the same soft expression, eyes glimmery in the dim light, the cherry on his cigarette throwing a soft orange glow on his skin as he inhales.

“We are a good pair, aren’t we?”

“A couple of dwarves.”

She rolls her eyes, ashes her cigarette. “Not all of us are blessed with beanstalk genes, okay? Besides, I like being short.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Makes it easier to stoop to your level when you pick on me.”

She meets his eyes again, this time smiling herself. They’re feet apart, but she feels closer to him now than ever. James merely looks back at her amicably, studying first her face, then the rest of her. When he looks back to her eyes, he flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette as emphasis.

“Sorry ‘bout that, guys,” Lars’ voice says from inside. He comes bounding back out onto the balcony, huffing slightly as he brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Took longer than I expected. Gotta be honest, I love throwing parties, but I’m a shit host.”

He reassumes possession of his bogey and smokes it down to the filter before flicking it over the railing into the pool below. Turning to Maggie, he says, “Fuck, I’m drunk enough to dance. Do you want to go upstairs where the music is?”

Her lips spread wide into a grin. “Hell yeah. I’d love to see what kind of moves Lars Ulrich’s got in his repertoire.”

He takes her hand, bidding adieu to Hetfield before pulling her back inside the house. Before disappearing, Maggie looks to James and says, “This is gonna be good.” 

Upstairs, the music seems even louder than it was an hour ago, and her friends seem three times as drunk. Tori and Kirk are laughing hysterically as they dance, holding each other close. Meanwhile, Jason is weaving his way back to them with a tray filled with shots. His eyes light up when he sees Lars and Maggie.

“Did you smell the vodka? You guys came at just the right time.” He waves Tori and Kirk over. Together, the five of them assemble around the small coffee table, each taking a brimming shot glass. “What should we toast to?”

“‘To friendship?’” Maggie offers, a dribble of liquor spilling over her fingers.

Kirk rolls his eyes. “Lame.” 

“What about ‘to old friends and new houses?’” Tori says.

“And ‘to fucking shit up!’” Kirk adds.

Raising their glasses together, they all toast ‘to old friends and new houses and fucking shit up’ before downing the shots in unison. Music and people swirl around them, and Maggie feels her head swimming thickly. She giggles uncontrollably when Tori grabs her hands and drags her into the crowd to dance.

*******

She isn’t sure how many songs later it is when she feels someone’s hands make their way to her hips, a body pressing against her back. Assuming it’s Lars, she twirls around and throws her arms over the mystery dancer’s shoulders, only to find that she is nose-to-nose with Jason.

“Oh.” She moves back a little, blinks. “Hi, Jase.”

“Hi.” He gives her a dazzling, heavy-lidded grin. “I saw you dancing your ass off over here and couldn’t resist.”

“Of course you couldn’t.” She repositions her hands to his shoulders, stepping in time with him. “Will you be glad to be home for good next month?" 

“Absolutely. Touring is great, but I’m exhausted.”

“I bet.”

“Besides.” He moves closer to her, so close she swears she can feel his breath stirring the hair near her ear. “I’ll soon be so many miles closer to this pretty little painter I know.” 

At this, Maggie snorts. “You know, as much as we've drank tonight, I'm _still_ not drunk enough to flirt with you, Newsted.”

He’s so close to her that she feels him grinning, feels his hands on his hips pull her just a fraction closer so that she’s pressed flush against him. “How drunk do you have to be?” 

“I’m not trying to find out.” Hands on his chest, she pushes away gently, tugging down her dress. She tries not to look in his eyes, but it seems impossible not to: he’s staring her down like he’s famished.  She makes an excuse. “I gotta go get some air. I’ll see you in a sec.”

Wobbly on her heels, Maggie threads her way through the crowd and toward the staircase. She’s drunker than she’s been in months -- maybe almost as drunk as she’d been last time she found herself inside a member of Metallica’s home for the first time. Her head is spinning and it takes all the concentration she can manage to make her way gingerly down the stairs one-at-a-time without toppling onto her ass.

“You need to learn your cut-off point,” she mutters to herself as she hits the final step. She’s about turn and wobble into the kitchen when she’s stopped short by a tall form coming to the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, she blinks until she recognizes the soft curls and blue eyes. “Oh, James. 

“Maggie.”

The two stare at each other, unsure of how to proceed. James wants to go up, and she’s coming down. It should be simple, but they are so near to each other that Maggie can’t think straight. Drunk as she is, she still feels her heart creep up nervously into her throat when she realizes she’s close enough to distinguish each individual hair of his beard, the untrimmed mustache hairs that curl above his lip, and the lips themselves: pink. Very pink.

“I’m, uh, just passing through,” she says, shaking her head and sliding past him.

He, too, shakes his head as if he has forgotten where he is. By the time Maggie makes her way to the sink, he’s climbed the stairs and disappeared.

She drinks handful after handful of tap water from the faucet. If Lars has any glasses in the cupboards yet, she’s too smashed to even begin looking for them, and her cupped palm is efficient enough. When finished, she grabs a napkin and runs it under her eyes, collecting stray black marks of smudged mascara. Vaguely, she ponders just how spooky her appearance must be at the moment while moving into the living room. 

The view from here is incredible. Big windows make up the entirety of the wall, and through them she can see all the way out to where the coast meets with the Bay. Starlight and moonglow send bright slices of glitter rippling across the water's surface. Maggie kicks her shoes off. Her toes wriggle into the soft, shaggy carpet as she gazes out the window, forehead leaned against the glass.

She doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching from behind her. For the second time that night, the same pair of hands come creeping around her waist. Suddenly she feels herself pulled back into a warm torso, a pair of forearms holding her in place.

“Hey,” says a voice in her ear. “Enjoying the view?”

It’s Jason. She sighs. “It’s lovely, isn't it? Even in the dark.”

“You’re lovely,” he says, his mouth moving to plant one, two, three kisses in a line from her shoulder to her neck.

“Oh, come on, Jason. Not tonight.”

“Why not?” His mouth moves upwards to place another kiss behind her ear. It makes her shiver. “We had fun last time.”

“Last time is not this time.”

She pushes at his forearms, but they won’t budge.

“Couldn't it be?”

“Jason, there are _people_ around.”

“There are so many rooms in this place, no one would know.”

“It’s not about anyone knowing.” She wriggles herself around to face him, placing her hands on his chest to create a minute amount of distance between them. “I’m not into it tonight.”

“What’s changed?”

“It was a one-night stand. It didn't mean anything. I like you, it was fun, whatever, but it was never meant to happen again.”

He smiles lazily, eyes glossy. Looking into his eyes now, Maggie can tell that he’s just drunk enough to not understand a single thing she’s saying. Jason has left the building. “You just need convincing,” he says. “Let me help you out.”

He puts his lips on hers. She rears her head back, turning her face away.

“Jason, _stop_. You’re being an asshole.”

“Come on, Mags. I’ll take care of you.”

They stumble backward against the window, and Jason leans the length of his body against her, pinning her to the glass. She can feel his erection pressing hard against her belly as he takes her wrists in his hands and puts his mouth to her neck again, biting and kissing all along her clavicle. She squirms, but her head is fuzzy and the entirety of his weight is against her.

“Please, Jason, listen to me,” she says, beginning to feel frantic. “Stop. Seriously. I don’t want this.”

“You don’t?” His tongue trails up her neck to her earlobe. Goosebumps creep along her skin. “Then why is your heart beating so fast?”

“Because I’m _scared_.” She feels his teeth on her ear, and bucks against him to try to get him to move. “Jason, get off!”

She is about to open her mouth to scream at him when all of a sudden she feels his weight disappear. Opening her eyes, Maggie sees Jason flying backwards to land on his ass on the carpet. James stands over him, face clouded with anger. The bassist looks as confused as she feels.

“What the fuck, Newkid? Are you serious?” James says. Jason makes to push himself to his feet but James keeps him planted into the carpet by pushing him back with a boot. “Not cool, dude. What the fuck are you thinking?” 

The bassist just blinks, looking as if he can hardly remember where he is. When he looks past James and sees Maggie still pressed against the window, he immediately turns red. “Listen, man, I know you slept with her first, but she and I -- “ 

“It’s not about who slept with her first, you fuck. Whatever the fuck you were doing to her she clearly didn’t want. What the hell is the matter with you?”

Jason still looks confused. For some reason, the gravity of the situation sinks in, and Maggie is mortified: James is saving her. From Jason. Jason was mauling her and if it weren’t for James, who knows what he’d be doing to her now. Feeling dizzy, Maggie wipes at the saliva on her neck with her hand and then slides to the floor. She’s not sure if she can support her own body weight at the moment.

From around Hetfield’s legs, Jason looks perplexed but remorseful. “Maggie, look, I didn’t know -- I’m sorry.”

“Get up.” James hits him in the ribs again with the toe of his boot. “I’m driving your dumb ass home before you traumatize anyone else at this party. _Now_.”

Jason needs no more convincing. He manages to scramble to his feet and somehow keep upright as he moves toward the staircase and downward. Maggie watches him go, heart still pounding but more confused than scared: how did James get there? What did he see? More than anything, she simply feels embarrassed. Of anyone in this house, she figured James wanted to defend her the least.

At the top of the stairs, James has paused, turning to look at her. Maggie meets his eyes only for a moment. When she sees the pity in them, she simply can’t look. It’s the last thing she wants to see.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Really.”

There’s a hesitation, a sigh, and then he disappears down the stairs. Maggie can hear the front door click shut behind him.

 

 

 

**July 6th, 1993**

  _Nothing feels better than an empty portfolio and a full wallet_ , Maggie thinks. Just a couple hours ago she’d left her apartment with two paintings in the portfolio under her arm, and now she is walking into a cafe downtown with her hands virtually empty and her wallet filled with a far greater number of bills than it has been in a few weeks. 

She thinks to herself that she really needs to send Lars a thank you note for all he’s done for her career-wise. Or a housewarming gift. He deserves it. But first, coffee -- a fancy, expensive coffee that she can now afford without feeling any guilt. Success has its perks, and rewarding herself is one of them.

As the line dwindles before her, she studies the menu so that she can perfectly recite her complex order when she gets to the register. She isn’t exactly sure what she’s ordering, just that the name sounds fancy. But when she asks the barista she’s ordering from if it’s good, the girl assures her it is, and Maggie trusts her judgment. 

It’s while she’s waiting for said barista to return with her caffeinated creation that Maggie looks around the cafe for the first time. She’s been so consumed with the menu that she’s yet to take in her surroundings, and when she finally does she feels both idiotic and shocked: over by the window, at a small table, sit James Hetfield, hunched over a notebook. He’s been here this whole time and she hasn’t even known it. 

Instantly, her stomach fills with a nasty mixture of anxiety and butterflies. Has he seen her? Is he just ignoring her or is he genuinely so absorbed in whatever he’s doing with that notebook that he hasn’t even noticed she’s been twenty feet from him for the past ten minutes? Her mind continues these somersaults as she waits for her drink, debating whether to bolt out the door at top speed, or casually exit in hopes that she won’t draw any attention to herself.

 She’s been partially dreading this day for a month. Obviously she’s known that he would return again -- and for good, now that tour is over -- and that just amplifies the unfortunate likelihood of her seeing him around town. But she didn’t think that it would be so soon. Lars had only phoned her a couple days ago saying he was back. Maggie figured she would have more time to prepare herself for something like this before it actually happened.

“Here you go, miss,” the barista says, snapping Maggie from her daze. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thanks.” She tries to paste a genuine smile across her face as she takes the hot cup and shuffles out of line. _Now make up your mind,_ she tells herself. _Run or walk? Sprint now or play it cool? Decide, decide, decide._

Daring one more look at James, she realizes that he still has yet to recognize her presence. He’s got one hand planted onto the notebook, holding the paper flat while the other grips a pencil and scribbles away. Both forearms are pressed against the tabletop, tanned and taut. His blond mop half-obscures his face, just a sliver of his nose and eyes revealed by a spot where a long strand is tucked behind his ear. The window throws afternoon light against his profile. He’s glowing like a stained glass portrait.

She’s forced to compare this image to how he looked last time she’d seen him: red-faced and outraged, fists clenched at his sides as he screams at Jason cowering on the floor. And the pitying look he’d given her before running down the stairs and out the front door. 

She knows she can’t just walk away from him. Somehow, before she’s even decided she’s doing it, her feet propel her forward and to the little table in the corner that her stomach is desperately begging her not to go to.

“Hi,” she says. It’s all that her nerves will allow.

James looks up. Their eyes meet, and just as Maggie is wishing she could melt through the floor, he says back, “Hey.”

Silence. The cafe around them bustles and hums and they say nothing. They just stare.

Then Maggie asks, tentatively, “Can I sit?”

 James nods.

She sets her coffee gingerly on the table and then lowers herself into the chair opposite him. Setting her portfolio on the floor, she forces herself to appear nonchalant as she leans back and inspects his set up. There’s a white cup in front of him as well.

“You’re drinking coffee?” she asks. 

“Tea,” he clarifies.

Her brows raise. “Sure there’s not beer in there?”

With a hint of mischief, he replies, “Taste it and see.”

For some reason, she rises to the challenge. Lifting James’ cup to her lips, she cautiously tilts it back, expecting the bitter bite of booze, caught slightly off guard when she tastes chai. He must have been here for a while -- the tea is nearly cold.

“You definitely don’t seem like the type of dude who is into chai,” Maggie says as she replaces the cup.

“I feel like that’s easy to say when you don’t actually know a person.”

“Touche.”

And it just now occurs to Maggie that she really _doesn’t_ know James, despite the large amount of mental real estate he occupies in her mind.

“What are you doing there?” she asks, forcing herself to casually lean forward onto her elbows. “In the notebook, I mean.”

“Oh. Just, uh, doodling a little. Nothing serious.”

“Really? Let me see.”

“No way.” He half-covers the page with a hand. “You’re an artist. Your standards are way too high.”

“Fuck off, they are not. I won’t judge you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Come on!” She laughs as she tugs at his hand, but then immediately pulls it away when she realizes that she’s touching him. On purpose. “Sorry, I’m a little too curious for my own good.”

“No, it’s cool. Do you really wanna see?”

“Yeah.”

He moves his hand away, revealing a smattering of little doodles: skulls and cars, a lightning bolt or two, a rather detailed drawing of a flaming tire, and a stray pair of dice on the side. It’s not so bad -- actually, it’s better than she expected.

“Wow. Never knew you could draw.”

“I can’t,” he says with an eye roll before pulling the notebook back to safety beneath his arm. “And again, you don’t know much about me.”

“I know that you can be nice when you want to be.”

She tries to catch his eye, but he won’t look up. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say. Her stomach is bubbling nervously, but it’s too late to stop her motormouth now. The next string of words comes tumbling out awkwardly but earnestly.

“I know it’s been, like, weeks, and you probably don’t even remember it that much, but I really have wanted to thank you for what you did. At Lars’ house. With Jason, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did.”

“No, you didn’t. And I appreciate it a lot more than I made it seem when it happened.”

Finally, he looks at her. His blue eyes search hers for a moment, intensely honest and clear. In the sunlight they’re almost too blue to bear looking at.

“He was taking advantage of you,” he says finally, looking away. “It doesn’t matter how much you don’t care for a person. When you see someone getting taken advantage of, you help them out.”

“Maybe. I was still surprised that you did.”

“If you’d like me to stay true to character next time someone is throwing themselves on you --”

“Can’t you just take a compliment?” Maggie slumps back into her chair again, exasperated. It feels as if her insides are in knots. “Dammit, James, you make everything so hard all the time.”

“What do you expect? You aren’t exactly easy to get along with, either. You expect me to treat you like a princess when you act like you’re above me all the time?”

She huffs. “I do not.”

“You can hardly look at me without scowling.”

“Does it ever occur to you that I act like that because I’m _scared_ of you?”

His eyes flick upward again in surprise. Her heart is slamming in her chest, and she doesn’t know why all of this is flooding out of her, but it feels good to let it go, let all of the pent up frustration roll on out.

“You don’t know me either, you know,” she says.

“You’ve never given me a chance to.”

Silence stretches between them again, long and empty. Maggie forces herself to follow the cars outside the window with her eyes. Anything but look at James and his too-intense gaze. He’s right, and she hates it. This isn’t what she wanted. She just wanted to get herself a stupid expensive cup of coffee, stand around outside and take the summer air while sipping on said cup of coffee, and then enjoy her peaceful ride home on the railway. Not this.

“Why are you afraid of me?” James asks.

“I don’t know. In spite of everything, I still enjoy your presence even when I hate it. And that’s intimidating. I shouldn’t like you, but I do.”

There. She said it. It’s out, at long last.

“I like you, too,” he says.

Maggie meets his eyes again. “Do you?”

Again, he shrugs. His long fingers are toying with the edge of the notebook paper, folding it back and forth, back and forth

“I don’t want to hate you,” she says.

“Then don’t.”

Cautiously, she reaches out a hand, touches it delicately to his own to stop his neurotic folding. His fingers pause. “James.”

He blinks but doesn’t break eye contact. She doesn’t know what to do next, butterflies too busy crawling up her throat for her to say anything else. Lightly, he says, “It’s funny to hear your say my name without any anger behind it.”

Maggie can’t help it; a smile comes to her face. “I can do it again, if you’d like. James, James, James.”

“Alright, let’s not overdo it.” He leans back, his hand slipping from beneath hers to land in his lap. “Just once is enough.”

“Sorry. Don’t want to make you throw up from too much kindness.”

He rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling. “Thank you for sparing me.”

For the second time ever, Maggie realizes just how different he looks when he smiles, and for the first time ever, she notices that he’s smiling because of her. Somewhere inside, she feels a hint of something warm.

“I don’t know if you remember, but that day in the record store, after you left, I bought the record. _Zeppelin II?_ I bought it. It’s in my turntable at home.”

“Really? I thought you didn’t listen to music.”

“You changed my mind.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Oh.”

“You should come over and listen to it sometime.”

It feels like such a juvenile thing to say. To offer for a guy to come over and listen to a record with you seems like how middle school girls con boys into coming over to take their virginity. But to Maggie’s relief, he gives her the smallest of smiles, his eyes meeting hers again.

“Maybe I will.”

“Cool.”

The silence falls between them again, but this time, it isn’t suffocating. It’s quiet and warm and for a moment it feels as if they have always been like this, just two people who don’t hate each other as much as they think, sitting in a coffee shop window with cars rolling by outside as if nothing remarkable is happening, as if this happens all the time.

“I should get home,” Maggie says, getting up out of her chair. She collects her things slowly, wishing she could stay longer but knowing that today, this is enough. “I’ll see you around.”

One last time, James meets her eyes, and his are smiling even if the rest of him is not. “Yeah, see you around.”

  
On the train ride to her apartment, Maggie tries to think of anything other than those smiling eyes, but it doesn’t work. She puts _Zeppelin II_ on as soon as she walks through the door.

 

 

 

**July 15th, 1993**

 Nothing special happens on Thursdays, Maggie knows this. It’s why she resolves to putting her pajamas on at 6PM, despite that there are hours of sunlight left. And because she _knows_ nothing special is going to happen today, she even goes so far as putting on just a sports bra and a pair of old spandex volleyball shorts so she can splay herself across the couch and eat straight from a gallon of strawberry ice cream with a spoon. It’s too hot to do anything else. Not that she has any other options, anyway.

Of course, just because she’s for once resigned herself to her boredom and actually embraced it, she should have known that something would come up. For a moment, she considers it: _wouldn’t it be funny if Lars comes barging down my door asking me to help him find a pet pig to bring home or something equally as ridiculous?_ It’s not outside of the realm of possibility; the menagerie of nonsensical quests she’s went on with Lars have been much stranger. But she knows it won’t happen. She can just tell.

It’s for this reason that her heart nearly bursts when she hears a little knock, knock, knock on her door. The spoon practically flies out of her hand. Caught off guard, she shoves the carton of ice cream onto the coffee table without a spare thought of the white stains the condensation will leave and gets up to answer the door.

“Just a second, sorry.” After fumbling with the locks, she pokes her head around to peer into the hall. “Oh, shit. James. I wasn’t expecting you.” 

He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, wearing nothing but some beat up sneakers, a pair of faded boardshorts, and a Judas Priest t-shirt. The outfit makes him look younger than his years. He’s somehow tanner than when she last saw him, but it doesn’t hide the faint pink tinge on his cheeks. “Is this a bad time?” he asks.

“No, no, I just didn’t think I’d have company.” She looks down at her lack of clothing sheepishly. “Sorry. Is everything okay?”

For some reason, she assumes that Kirk or someone must have died in some freak accident for him to be standing alone on her doorstep.

“Yeah, everything’s good. I was just wondering if you’ve got anything going on tonight.”

This catches her off guard. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, nothing aside from eating an entire gallon of strawberry ice cream.” 

“Is that why your tongue is so pink?”

She smiles bashfully. “Might be.”

Though it’s entirely too hot for it, she grabs a sweatshirt off the coat hook and throws it over herself before letting him inside. He stands in the living room as if unsure of what to do in the space, hands still shoved in his pockets. Maggie mirrors his stance, thumbs fiddling together in the big pouch of her hoodie.

“So, you were saying something about plans?” she asks. 

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, didn’t really have anything going on today, so I was thinking of going and hitting the shit out of some golf balls at the driving range, and I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna join. For stress relief purposes.”

“Stress relief?” She cocks a brow. “You’re officially on vacation. What could you possibly be stressing about right now?”

“Working up the courage to come over here and ask you to hang out with me?” he offers with a shy smile.

That smile nearly knocks the wind out of Maggie. “I won’t bite your head off.”

“Can’t blame me for not being used to that yet, can you?”

“Maybe not.” She pulls a hand from her pocket to tuck her hair behind her ear. “You golf?”

“Not usually. Do you?”

“Only never in my life.”

“I can teach you how to swing a golf club, but that’s about it.”

“Good enough. Do you mind waiting around while I get dressed?”

His eyes momentarily trail down to her bare legs before moving back to her face, smiling. “I can wait.”

 *******  

It’s probably a good thing that no one is at the driving range when they show up. Most likely it’s deserted because it’s too hot to really be doing anything outdoors, but Maggie is grateful that there will be no one around to watch her miserable attempt at swinging at golf balls.

She and James trek up to the line of putting platforms side-by-side, Maggie toting a bucket of balls while James brings the clubs. By the time they get to the farthest platform on the right, Maggie has to set the bucket down just so she can use both hands to wipe the sweat from her brow. Looking out before them, she surveys the landscape: there’s a downward slope that leads up to a knoll, marked with big wooden numbers to indicate distance in yards -- 100, 200, 300, and so forth. A few random props are scattered about too: a gutted junk car, an old bathtub, a battered bullseye target, and in the far back an out-of-commission glider plane.

“This is the most American thing I think I’ve ever done,” she says. “Yeehaw.”

“Sure thing, cowgirl.” James hands a club to her, looking smug. “As if housing an entire carton of ice cream by yourself doesn’t scream ‘U.S.A.’”

“Gluttony is pretty American, isn’t it?”

She certainly feels gluttonous right now. She can’t help but let her eyes travel along the lines of James’ body as he leans over to pluck a ball from the bucket, can’t help but note the way his shirt rides up ever so slightly to reveal a slice of sweaty skin on his back. Or the way he flips his hair out of his face when he stands back up, a few damp strands clinging to his temples.

“You wanna go first?” he says, holding the golf ball out in her direction.

She shakes her head. “Oh no, you first. I gotta watch how you do it so I know exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“If you insist.” He bends over again to set the ball on the tee -- _thank the heavens,_ Maggie thinks -- then straightens himself up, grasping the club with both hands. “Take notes, rookie.”

In one fluid motion, he draws the club back and swings forward, sending the ball soaring out across the green. Following it with her eyes, Maggie watches as it soars past the bathtub to settle somewhere between the 200 and 300 meter signs.

“What the hell? You said you don’t golf!” 

“This isn’t golfing,” he says with a grin. “It’s just hittin’ shit. Your turn.”

She tees up her own ball, trying to replicate James’ grasp on her club. “Here goes nothing.”

Quite literally, there goes nothing -- she swings the club and ends up hitting only dirt, sending bits of grass flying with a little _woosh_. The golf ball remains in its tee as James cracks up behind her, bent over his knees.

“Shut up!” she says, though giggling herself. “I told you I’ve never done this!”

“That was incredible, really. Great form.” 

“Listen, I’m doing my best.”

“Here, let me help. You’re standing all wrong.”

He moves behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Maggie feels her heartbeat quicken as he pulls her shoulders back, then straightens her head, and then uses a foot to nudge her feet further apart so that they’re parallel with her shoulders.

“There you go. Now lean forward a little and look at where you want the ball to go.”

His hands come around to find hers, repositioning them on the club, and he leans ever so slightly into her back. Maggie is aware of every part of their bodies that are touching, from her shoulders pressed into his chest to her hips meeting his pelvis. She wonders if she’s been sweating this much the whole time or if this new heat crawling up her neck is caused by something other than the humidity.

“Do you know where you want it to go?” James asks, breath hot on her neck.

She can hardly coerce herself into concentrating, but does her best to pick an arbitrary spot in the field and nods.

“Okay. Now just bring your arms back and swing right at that spot you’ve picked." 

She does as she’s told, focusing more on the heat of James’ hands around hers than actually hitting the ball. But to her surprise, the club connects with a satisfying _thunk_ and the ball flies off the platform, arcing through the air to bounce along the ground somewhere just before the 100 meter marker. 

“See?”

James moves away, and Maggie finds herself smiling in spite of the jittery feeling in her stomach. She looks up to see him grinning at her, blue eyes squinting against the sunlight.

“Wanna try again?” he asks.

“Hell yeah.”

She tees another ball, lines up, picks a spot, and whacks it. It flies further than the first, and she jumps up triumphantly.

“Yeah! Is this the PGA? ‘Cause I think I just went pro!”

“Let’s not get carried away, now.”

“Piss off. This is fun. How many balls do we have?”

It turns out they have a lot -- at least enough that they can stand side-by-side and whack balls for a good two hours, sending them one-by-one into the green. 

As they burn through their ammo, she catches herself looking back every now and then to study James. He moves easily, seeming not to mind the sweat that drips down his neck into the collar of his t-shirt. He’s a Cali boy, through and through: sweaty and bronzed and looking completely natural in his weathered swim trunks despite the fact that they’re currently at a driving range. 

Every once in a while, he catches her looking and gives her an encouraging grin. The way the waning sunlight paints the contours of his face with milky orange light has her reminding herself not to stare. He’s radiant. And she never would have imagined being so near to him to be so easy. It makes her sad to realize that they can’t stand here punting golf balls forever. 

“Hey, remember that Led Zeppelin record?” she says, faux casual. “You never did come over to listen to it with me.” 

“That could change,” he says simply as he hits another ball. The bucket is beginning to empty.

“Cool.”

“You said you didn’t listen to music anymore because of your dad, right?”

This takes her back a little. She looks over at him again just to make sure he’s okay -- is he really asking her a personal question? “Yeah,” she says, turning her gaze back to the green. “He’s kind of the one who turned me on to a lot of the stuff I used to listen to.”

“What happened?”

She swallows. “He, uh, died. Work mishap, real sudden, tragic accident sort of thing. He was doing construction up in Seattle on one of those highrise type buildings when his support line snapped and he just sort of...fell.” 

James says nothing, but his gaze on her is palpable.

“I was in college when it happened, hadn’t spoken to him in a few weeks, so when I found out I felt like an absolute piece of shit. Why didn’t I keep in contact more? I was so busy that I just never called. And I felt so fuckin’ guilty that anything that reminded me of him had to go. I sold all my records. Even now, I can’t hear a Thin Lizzy song without thinking of him.”

“He liked Thin Lizzy?” James asks.

“They were his favorite.”

“He had good taste.”

“You like Thin Lizzy?” She hits another ball.

“Yeah. Whenever you’re ready to listen again, I have all of their albums.”

Her lips curl up just a bit. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

“My mom is dead, too,” he says quietly. 

She turns to look at him. He’s focused steadily on the swing he’s taking as if he hasn’t just said anything. But she hears it, and waits for him to say more.

“So I know how you feel,” is all he adds. 

It’s enough. And somehow, it makes some of his little standoffish quirks fall into place. The same way having a dead parent too young gives stock to Maggie’s own shitty personality traits.

They smack balls for another few minutes. Maggie is interrupted momentarily when she sees James abruptly stop from the corner of her eye. Looking over, she finds him running a finger along the bridge of his nose. 

“Was that a raindrop that just hit me?”

“Could be sweat.”

Suddenly a booming gurgle of thunder cracks from above. Simultaneously, they turn their heads to the sky. James’ eyes widen.

“No, it was definitely a raindrop.”

Somehow, they both managed to miss the huge black cloud that had begun to move in overhead. It shivered in the sky just above them, threatening to spill any minute. No wonder it’s been so muggy.

“Should we pack up?” Maggie asks.

“Probably a good idea.”

Together, they collect the bucket and the clubs and make their way back up over the knoll toward the car. Before they can even get halfway there, the cloud overhead splits open without further warning and lets out a barrage of droplets that has Maggie laughing and sprinting for safety. James is at her heels, laughing too as he slams the car door and locks them safe and dry inside. 

“You afraid you'll melt if you get wet?” he teases her as he starts the engine.

“Shouldn’t you of all people know that I’m capable of getting wet?”

His eyes go wide, but then he grins, showing all thirty-two perfect teeth and shaking his head as he backs out of the lot.

They ride most of the way back to her apartment in silence. Rain patters the windshield, creating a steady soothing rhythm that fills the space between them. As James navigates the wet San Francisco streets, Maggie glances over at him and notices that he’s smiling the whole time.

“Smiling really suits you,” she says softly. She wonders if he even hears it over the sound of the rain.

He says nothing, just meets her eyes with a sideways glance for a moment before looking back to the road. One hand gripping the steering wheel, the other resting on the console between them. Smiling herself, she tentatively reaches a hand across the seat to place it over his own. She takes a deep breath and waits for him to move his hand away, but he doesn’t. 

 *******  

On the street in front of her building, James puts the car in park and turns to her. Obviously searching for the appropriate parting words, he licks his lips before saying, ‘This was fun.” 

“It was.”

They gaze at each other for a moment. His thumb moves in timid circles over her palm. It’s hard to tell if it’s a subconscious movement or intentional.

“Do you want to come in?” she asks. “This storm is getting kind of bad. Might be dangerous to drive. We can eat ice cream while you wait it out.”

What she really wants to say is, _Don’t go. Please. Not yet._ She hopes he can hear it in her voice.

He nods. “Might as well wait till it clears up a bit.”

She smiles.

They run through the rain to the front door. It is pouring harder than ever, pelting them mercilessly and soaking their clothes clean through before they can get to the shelter of the stoop. By the time they’ve made it up the stairs and to her door, they’ve left a conspicuous trail of wet spots on the carpet behind them.

“God, I’m drenched,” she says, pushing her way into the living room. Her shoes drop from her feet one after the other next to the coat rack. “I didn’t expect it to rain today.”

James follows suit and leaves his dirty sneakers beside hers. “Little water never hurt anybody.”

“Speaking of, are you thirsty? There’s beer in the fridge.”

True to her word, Maggie makes her way over to the record player near the window and lifts the lid open. _Zeppelin II_ is waiting inside, never having left the turntable since she first placed it in there two months ago. She turns the player on and waits for the record to spin before lifting the needle and gently placing it down on the edge of the vinyl. It crackles softly as she turns away.

When she faces the living room again, James is standing in the middle of it, looking as if he’s not sure what to do. He is dripping wet, hair hanging in golden ringlets around his shoulders. Little droplets collect at the ends of each strand before dripping off to collect into the sopping black fabric of his t-shirt. He’s quite the sight: a wet dog standing in the middle of her apartment, looking at her with searching blue eyes, clothing stuck to every angle of his body.

“You look like a wet puppy.”

“Woof.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you like Budweiser? It’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll drink anything.”

 _Of course you will,_ she thinks mirthfully. Moving to the microscopic kitchen, she rummages between salad dressings and takeout containers in the fridge before producing two cans of Bud. She pads back to the living room to find James standing in the same spot.

“I always really liked this song,” he says, taking the beer from her. “Whole Lotta Love” is churning out from the speakers gently.

She leans against the entryway. “Joan Jett said this song took her virginity the first time she heard it. It’s so sexual.”

“It’s like an erection of a song,” James jokes.

She can’t help it -- the word “erection” forces her eyes to flicker toward James’ groin for just a second before she can even stop herself. Embarrassed, she looks back to his face and nods. Now that they are closed in together, it feels any tension that could possibly be between them is concentrated into this one little space, charging the air and making her head fuzzy. The rain smacks loudly against the windows as they gaze at each other.

“I should change,” she says, tearing her eyes away. “But you can make yourself at home. Want me to get you something dry to wear?”

“Sure.”

She turns and moves into the bedroom. In the dark, she paws inside her dresser for a couple of shirts, finding the same big one she’d given to Jason months ago. It feels good to strip her damp shirt over her head and free herself from the sticky material.

As she reaches for the dry shirt, she jokingly calls out, “Is this the part where you run for the hills now that I’m not looking?”

She’s startled when she hears James’ voice say from the door, “No.”

Turning to the dimly lit doorway, she finds James standing in it, beer can no longer in hand. They’re at least five feet apart, but the space suddenly seems too small for the both of them. He’s staring right at her, lips slightly parted as he examines her face as if he’s looking at it for the first time.

She can almost feel the weight of his gaze as it travels from her eyes to her mouth, from her mouth to her neck, neck to mouth again and back to her eyes. It is as if she’s under a microscope, magnified to the hundredth degree. She wonders if he can see her pulse moving in her throat.

“No,” he says again. “This is the part where I help you get out of your wet clothes.” James steps closer.

Maggie’s fist clenches tighter around the shirt in her left hand. “Yeah,” she says hazily, “I think I need some assistance.”

He steps forward again and closes the distance between them. “Let me help you with that.”

The dry shirt is pulled from her grasp and dropped to the floor.

“Thanks.” Her heart is positively pounding now, rioting in her chest. “Now what?”

A pair of broad hands lift and place themselves on Maggie’s bare hips. Her sides erupt in goosebumps that spread around to her belly when he pulls her gently against him, warm skin against cold wet t-shirt. His eyes are boring down into hers, luminous in the darkness. She can almost taste his breath.

“I was thinking about kissing you,” he replies.

“Then do it.”

First she feels the facial hair, then the lips. They press soft against hers, as if uncertain, until she tips up onto her toes and leans in. The spring in her stomach winds tighter as she moves to cup his face with both hands and pull him deeper into her. Finally, his tongue slips out to coil with hers, and she feels herself soften along the length of his body and whimper because finally, _finally_ it is happening. He kisses her like he’s hungry. His fingers tighten on her hips as if trying desperately to root himself to this moment in time.

Her hands slide down his neck and he breaks apart from her for a fraction of a second. “Every time I look at you, I think about doing this,” he says.

“Why have you waited so long?”

He kisses her again, moves his hands to her back. “Because I’m an idiot.”

She tugs at the hem of his shirt, peels it away from his body and throws it on top of hers on the floor. “I think about doing this a lot, too.”

His torso is damp and cold under her hands. It’s begging to be kissed. First she moves her lips to his neck, pecking a line down from his throat to his clavicle, then down to his sternum. She can feel the quick movement of his heart beneath her mouth. She nips at his skin, biting gently, and it’s only a couple moments before he can’t take it and pulls her lips back to his.

But kissing isn’t enough. Maggie wants _more_. Her hands leave his hair to roam over his torso, tracing the lines of muscle beneath the skin. Then they travel downward, where the wet waistband of his shorts meets with the patch of fuzz beneath his belly button. Her fingers curl into the elastic band, holding on for dear life.

“Fuck,” she says. His hands are on her back now, nails scratching alone her spine. She tugs on the shorts, saying, “Off. _Now_.”

His smile is palpable against her throat as he kisses and sucks. Sucks hard enough that she’s sure he’ll leave a mark. Releasing for a moment, he mumbles, “Take them off for me,” before moving downward to start on her collarbone.

Her hands are frantic as they fumble with the drawstring. Once untied, she unceremoniously shoves them downward and is glad that he matches her pace when he strips her sports bra up and over her head. Without a moment’s pause, she walks him backward and gives him a light push. He’s sent sprawling back onto the bed.

Maggie drinks in the image before her: James, stark naked, dark shadows pooling in the contours of his face, his chest, the V-lines of his pelvis as he lays on her bed, staring up at her. Despite the darkness, she can see his eyes, can see them glinting and glittering as they examine her body. Slowly, she hooks her fingers into the belt loops of her own shorts and tugs them over her hips, letting them fall to the floor. The quick rise and fall of James’ chest moves in time with her racing heart.

“You are fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

She doesn’t want to stop looking at him. She’s not sure if she will ever get the pleasure of witnessing this again -- James’ body bare to her, vulnerable. Something about the vulnerability makes it even more irresistible. For once it is just them, no barriers or roadblocks.

“Come here,” he says.

And she does.

Maggie crawls onto the bed, making her way between the A-frame of his long legs before straddling his hips. She can feel his hard dick trapped between her crotch and his belly, can feel the wetness of herself between the two of them. The way he is looking up at her sends her pulse straight to her pelvis.

“I’m here,” she whispers.

“Good.”

His hands find their way to her breasts. Thumbs and forefingers callused from guitar playing trace the nipples, sending ripples of electricity through her veins. Maggie leans forward to kiss him again, to taste more of those lips that she’s been dreaming about for months. His kiss is deep and commanding and she gets lost for a few long minutes, swirling tongues and biting lips.

Slowly, she tilts her pelvis forward, sliding the wet folds of her pussy along his shaft. James groans, releasing the kiss so he can toss his head back onto the bed.

“Fuck, Maggie,” he says.

 _Oh god,_ she thinks. _That is fucking hot._

She does it again, back and forth, slow as she can possibly bear. Hetfield remains with his head pressed into the sheets, eyes shut and mouth parted as if he’s barely hanging on. With his neck exposed, Maggie takes it upon herself to trace from the base of his throat to his jaw with her tongue. This has him hissing out a long breath between his teeth.

“Don’t tease me,” he says.

“You don’t like it?”

His eyes flutter open to see the taunting smirk on her face. “There’s something else I’d like more.”

“Wonder what it could be,” she says, feigning ignorance. But she lifts her hips just slightly and presses her opening to the tip of his dick. “Is this any better?”

“Almost.” His fingernails are grinding into her ribs.

“Hmm.” She moves slightly, feels his head slide between her folds and just inside, and stops. “How about now?”

“More,” he growls, and it’s so guttural and deep that she has to oblige him.

In one quick movement, she pushes her hips down until he slides all the way inside. The tip of him presses at her cervix, and she has to gasp for breath.

“Now what?” she asks again.

“Fuck me before I have to fuck you,” he says.

There’s no chance that she’s going to let that happen. Something is so hot about having him under her control. Steadily, she slides herself back up before plunging down again fast, eliciting another hiss from James’ lips.

His hands fly to her hips, trying to coax her to move faster, but she takes them in both of her own and pin them parallel to his head. He looks up at her, wide-eyed and dazed, and she can’t help but grin.

“I’m in control,” she whispers. She bobs her hips again, then tilts them back and forth, grinding on to him.

“ _Fuck_.”

“You like that?”

“Don’t stop.”

She doesn’t. She grinds some more, then teases him up and down slowly before even she herself can’t take it. Her hips start a steady rhythm, working quicker and quicker until she’s fucking him fast and hard and biting down onto her lip. James’ face is a mosaic of sensation: pleasure and awe, adoration and want. Maggie releases one of his hands to cup his beautiful face, scrape her nails through the hair along his jaw.

James takes this as his opportunity to assume control. His freed hand immediately flies down to press two fingers hard on her clit. When she gasps, he grins between pants and starts to circle his fingers slow.

“Oh my god.” She falls forward onto her forearms, pressing her face into his neck. Her hips buck faster. “Fuck, James, _yes_.”

His fingers won’t stop. “Keep going, baby.” He turns his head to lick along the edge of her ear. “I love hearing you moan.”

“Oh, James, please -- “

“Please what?”

Maggie wants to grab back his hand, fight for dominance again, but she can’t. The fingers on her clit and his dick crashing inside her over and over prevent her from doing anything but continue to ride him faster.

“Please don’t stop. Please. I need you.”

The fingers on her clit switch directions. She cries out.

“I want to feel you cum,” he whispers in her ear.

At this point she can’t tell if she’s fucking him, or if he’s fucking her. All she knows is that the spring coiled inside her feels as if it might snap. A searing puddle of heat is gathering in her belly, her fingers are tangling themselves in his hair, and his name keeps tumbling out from between her lips into the side of his neck.

“James, James, _please_ , oh god -- “

His teeth sink into her shoulder, and the heat building in her abdomen suddenly spirals out into all directions and fills her with heavenly release.

“Fuck!”

With one last movement of her hips, she falls against him completely and cries into the mattress. The walls of her pussy tremble and clench as the pleasure consumes and washes out of her. James’ hands fly to her hips, his own now moving up and down to crash inside her once, twice, three times more before his mouth tips open and he’s moaning out loud into the bedroom.

“Oh, Maggie.” She can feel him pulsing, his hot cum spurting inside her as she rides out the last of her own orgasms. “ _Fuck_ , baby, yes.”

His movements still. The hands fall away from her hips, sliding down to rest on the backs of her thighs. For an indeterminate number of long minutes, they lay like this in silence, slowly catching their breath. Maggie can feel the heat of his breath stirring the hair on her neck, the heaving of his chest beneath hers getting slower and slower as time passes. Though they lay in silence, her mind won’t stop hearing echoes of him moaning her name. Echoes of him calling her “baby.”

Eventually, they’ve laid still so long she isn’t sure whether or not he’s asleep. Rolling over, she slides off him and lays on her side facing him. His eyes are open, staring emptily at the ceiling, and when he looks over at her, she can see his lips are swollen.

“Hi,” she whispers.

The swollen lips curve slightly. “Hey.”

Maggie swallows. She lifts her hand to smooth the blond hair back from his face, then rests it on the sweaty dampness of his chest. Rain hammers the roof as she tries to think of something else to say. Looking into his eyes, her mind is blank. But she feels warm.

“You are so beautiful,” he says quietly.

“You are too.”

A chuckle rumbles low in his chest. His arm unfolds to circle around her, placing the warm palm of his hand flat on her back.

She examines his face, every curve and line. Even in the dark, she knows just where everything should be: the low brow, the delicate eyelashes, the slope of the nose. Against her own will, she’s been memorizing the features of this face for months. And now she’s laying here, mere inches from it, looking at it without apprehension of being caught for this first time.

The fear that this may be the only time she’ll get to do this makes a fist clench tight around her heart.

“What are you thinking?” James asks, still looking at her.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispers.

Despite the lack of light, she can see the features of his face fall slightly. He slides closer to her, pressing her into the crook of his arm. She closes her eyes as she feels his lips press into her hair.

“I’m right here.”

“Will you stay?” she asks.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

Across the apartment, in the living room, the soft opening to “Ramble On” plays from the stereo as they lay in silence with the rain falling overhead.

 

 

 

**July 24th, 1993**

The paintings are hung in their respective places, the placards hung beside their corresponding works, all the frames polished and free from dust. Her dress is ironed, her heels on despite the pain they’re causing in her toes, and she knows after double-checking in the bathroom five times in the past hour that her makeup is as good as it will get. But still, Maggie is nervous.

It’s her second exhibit opening ever, so she has every right to be trembling with anticipation. Still, she’s assured and reassured that everything is in place so many times that she should not feel as distraught as she does. Nothing will go wrong, she knows this -- what is there to go wrong? Art gallery openings are possibly the tamest events on the face of the planet, or at the least in this city. Nothing but high-falutin art connoisseurs and a handful of yuppies milling about, poring over paintings, and occasionally asking her questions about her work. Maybe even asking her how much one costs, if she’s lucky. The first time went so well that she shouldn’t feel this impending sense of doom.

But she can’t help it. As the clock ticks closer toward 8PM, the tapping of her fingers along her thigh grows more and more frantic. The piano renditions of old love songs playing quietly over the speakers in the corner aren’t helping any. But they’re all she’s got to pass the time.

The CD runs through renditions of “I Got You Babe” and “Fast Car” before the doors open. Halfway through “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” the first few guests enter the gallery, and it’s another two songs before anyone actually speaks to her. At this point, she’s nearly sweating with nerves, but she answers their questions with a fake air of confidence and is grateful when they walk away.

More and more people fill the gallery as the CD plays on. Here and there people ask her questions, but most people look at the paintings in silence or discuss them with others in quiet tones; others loiter around the refreshment table and chat to each other through mouthfuls of far-too-expensive cheese. Maggie just counts the shitty piano covers as they go by, anything to keep herself sane. Maybe she should have taken a couple glasses of the complimentary champagne before the doors opened.

It’s eleven songs into the night before she hears someone say her name.

“Maggie?”

She turns to see three familiar faces coming through the doors, and relief washes over her.

“There she is!” Tori comes striding up to her, arms outspread. She folds Maggie into her embrace and pats the back of her friend’s meticulously-manicured hair. “Good to see you. This place looks great.”

“Yeah, nice digs, Mags,” Kirk says, following Tori’s hug with his own. “How you doing?”

“Fine,” she says.

Pulling away, Kirk gives her an inquisitive look. “Why are your hands shaking?”

Before she can answer, Tori frowns and grabs one of her hands, examining the trembling fingers. “You’re shaking like a leaf on a tree, girl. What’s wrong?”

Maggie just shakes her head. “Nothing’s wrong. Not _now_. You guys are here.”

“Are you nervous?” Tori asks.

She nods.

“What’s there to be nervous about? These paintings are awesome,” Lars says, bringing in the rear. He’s taken his time to get over here, busy glancing over the works on the walls. “I haven’t seen a lot of these.”

“I had to rush to finish most of them in the past two weeks,” she explains. “Maybe that’s why I’m nervous. I haven’t had as much time as I’d usually like to perfect all of them.”

“Good art is good because it isn’t perfect,” Lars says.

She knots her hands together. “Maybe.”

Lars just smiles and rolls his eyes, finally coming in for a hug of his own and a peck on the cheek. “Chill out, you nut job. No one is gonna wanna buy a painting from you if you’re looking like that.”

Maggie’s face goes white.

“Lars!” Tori smacks his arm. “How the fuck is that supposed to make her feel any better?”

“No, he’s right, I need to chill out.” Maggie starts to drag her hands down her face before remembering the makeup she took so long to apply. She wipes under her eyes to try to clean up any mascara she’s smudged. “I’ll be fine, I just need to breathe. Do you guys mind hanging around for a while? That way if someone approaches me and I can’t remember how to talk you can just swoop in and convince them I’m mute or something?”

Lars throws an arm around her neck and rubs her arm. “I’ll be your ambassador, don’t worry.”

Having Lars around actually proves helpful -- a couple minutes after Kirk and Tori wander off to survey the scene and grab some free booze, a man approaches to ask Mags about the paintings, and Lars is there to pretend he’s her “agent” and talk up her work as if she’s going to be the next Basquiat. The man walks away with her card in hand, promising to call about one of the pieces.

As the man leaves, Lars turns to her with a satisfied smirk. “See? I’m a good wingman. You’re lucky to have me. 

“Without you, I probably wouldn’t even be here in the first place,” she confesses. She lets out a breath and leans against the wall. “I was thinking of sending you a housewarming gift as a thank you for all of the help, but after seeing your little castle I can’t even think of anything you don’t already have.”

“God, no, I don’t need anymore shit to fit into that house. But I could use a wingman of my own. Kirk and James aren’t very good at it." 

At the mention of James’ name, her stomach flips. She can’t help but wish he was here, but brushes the sentiment away. “What do you need a wingman for? You’ve already been married twice. Plus, you’re rich. I’d think the ladies would be running up to you.”

“The only sane lady who’s been running up to me recently is you,” he says mirthfully. “And no offense, but I don’t think we’d be a good couple.”

“None taken. I’d probably kill you if we were married. Besides, that’d seem a little incestuous at this point.”

“Because I’m like your brother?”

“Because Kirk is like your brother and Tori is like my sister, so marrying you would be like marrying...my brother-in-law.”

His brows raise. “That’s a lot of mental gymnastics just to say you don’t like me that much.”

She punches his arm. “Piss off. You’re like my favorite person these days.”

“We do look like siblings, though. People here probably think we are some hot twin dream team.” 

“You think so?”

“Hell yeah. It’s the hair. We have the same long, glamorous mane.” For emphasis, he gives his locks a little dramatic flip over his shoulder.

Maggie snorts and mutters, “Maybe that’s why James likes me.”

Lars turns to eye her suspiciously. “Likes you? I thought the man positively despised you.”

Now she’s turning red, realizing her blunder. “You know what I meant.”

Still, he gives her a dubious look, and opens his mouth to interrogate just as Tori and Kirk come back around the corner.

“Hey, Mags, looks like people are clearing out. What time is this thing supposed to be over?”

Surprised, Maggie looks at the clock on the opposite wall, and finds it’s nearing ten o’clock. “Doors close in twenty minutes. Wow, that went by fast.”

“See? You did just fine.” Kirk elbows her lightly while smirking over his champagne glass. “Good thing we came and saved the day, yeah?”

“Yeah, thank God,” she agrees, though her hands are feeling fluttery again for an entirely different reason.

“We’ll head out so you can close up,” Tori says. She comes in for a goodbye hug. “But this was really great. You did a good job putting this together. 

“Yeah, we’re proud of you.” Kirk gives her a half-hug as well.

“Thanks, guys.”

She moves to embrace Lars, who is still looking as if he wants to press her but merely congratulates her and promises to call soon. Maggie is grateful that he for once keeps his mouth shut, and only feels relieved when Kirk starts pulling him toward the door.

Tori lingers back, waiting until the two men are out of ear shot before turning confidentially toward Maggie. “Hey, I’ve got something to ask you, but I wanted to wait till Lars’ nosy ass wasn’t around to butt in.”

Maggie just looks at her, encouraging her to go on.

“Next week Kirk and I are going to go to the courthouse to get married,” she says. “Like, for real this time. But we need someone there as a witness.”

“What? That’s awesome, Tor. What brings this on?”

She shrugs. “It’s been six months. We’re dumb and in love and I want a real ring on my finger instead of this ugly thing.” Grinning bashfully, she holds up her left hand where the same skull-shaped ring slides around on her fourth finger. “We both just think that it’s time.”

“I’m happy for you. When are you going?”

“Wednesday, I think. The night before we’re having a little get together at Kirk’s -- everyone’s invited, everyone close, I mean, nothing big -- and then the next day we’ll just go and get the thing done. I want you to be there, but there’s kind of a catch. Kirk’s already asked James to go.”

Again, Maggie’s stomach does a little twirl, but she keeps her face composed so as not to give anything away. “Oh,” is all she manages to say.

“Is that okay? If you don’t wanna come, I totally get it.”

“No, it’s cool. We won’t tear each other’s heads off, I promise.”

Tori quirks a brow. “Are you sure? You guys don’t have a very strong history of being pleasant with one another.”

“Really, I think we will be fine.”

“Okay. But if he pulls any shit the night before, I’ll tell him he can’t come, straight up.”

“Tori.” Maggie puts her hand on her friend’s shoulder, looking her in the eye. “It will be okay. Seriously. Don’t worry about it. 

Tori smiles brightly, then gives Maggie’s hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Mags. I’ll call you later and let you know what time to come over Tuesday.”

The two embrace once more, and then Tori takes off toward the door where Kirk and Lars are waiting, the latter looking far too curious about the conversation he’s not been privy to. They disappear into the darkness outside, and Maggie gives a big sigh.

It’s not long before the gallery empties out completely. At five minutes till ten, Maggie begins gathering up her stuff, collecting her purse, thanking the exhibit curator for the opportunity and even extending her gratitude to the staff who’ve come out to start cleaning up the refreshments table and sweeping the floors.

Just as she’s double checking that everything is inside her purse, she hears the front doors open behind her. She turns, starting to say, “I’m sorry, but we’re officially closed,” before she stops short.

James is standing in the doorway, wearing a brown button-up shirt and a bashful little smile. He’s got a plastic grocery bag slung over his arm. “Sorry I’m late,” he says.

Maggie is taken aback. A piano rendition of "Fooled Around and Fell in Love" is playing over the speaker, and looking at him standing there is like seeing a vision of an angel. Hand still inside her purse, she reminds herself to shut her gaping mouth 

“How did you know I’d be here?” she asks.

“Kirk told me in passing. I tried getting here earlier, but I had to make a couple pit stops along the way and ended up taking a bit longer at the record store than I’d thought.”

She looks at him quizzically. He lifts his arm to dangle the grocery bag between them.

“I was gonna get flowers, but that seemed kind of lame,” he says. “So I got strawberry ice cream instead. And _Jailbreak_ by Thin Lizzy on vinyl.”

Maggie still stares at him, unsure of what to say. His cheeks are growing pink, as if the silence is draining him of his nerve.

“At first I just thought I’d let you borrow my copy, but then I thought it would be better if you had your own, you know, so you can listen to it whenever you want. It’s lame, I know.”

She can see the corner of the album sleeve poking out from inside the bag. Looking into James’ eyes, seeing the uncertainty, and looking at his fancy collared shirt and the boots peeking out from beneath his jeans, her heart swells with warmth. Before he can open his mouth to awkwardly explain himself again, she steps forward and crushes herself against him, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Thank you,” she says into his chest. The shirt smells like him, and she’s surprised to find she knows just what he should smell like now. “That is probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done.”

His arms circle around her shoulders, face settling into her hair. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“It’s more than enough.” She nuzzles into his shirt a bit more. “Is it dumb to say that I’ve missed you? 

“Yeah. But that makes two of us. 

She doesn’t want to pull out of his embrace, but she does anyway, just to get a look up into his face. He’s smiling softly down at her. She can tell his mustache has been freshly trimmed -- she can see the full shape of his lips. He looks so out of place, and it makes her appreciate this all the more. 

“Somehow, in a room full of art, you’re still the greatest masterpiece in the whole place,” she tells him lamely.

He chuckles. "How grotesquely cheesy.”

She leans in and cups his cheek with her hand, bringing his mouth to hers. He kisses her deeply. The butterflies in her stomach flutter tenfold when she feels the hands on her back curl into the fabric of her dress.

“You know,” he says, breaking off the kiss, “This ice cream is melting.”

Grinning, she gives him one more peck before grabbing his hand. “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

**July 27th, 1993**

A party on a Tuesday night is a thing Maggie hasn’t been privy to since her college years, and seems totally uncalled for, if it weren’t for the present circumstances. Even then, she’s been hanging around with the Metallica crew long enough now to know that the typical decorum that society adheres to never applies with these people.

When Kirk answers the door, he’s clearly half-drunk by the way his booze breath blasts over her as he hugs her. “Hello, Mags, bout time you finally showed up.”

“Oh, please, I’m hardly even late.” Pulling back from his embrace, she notes his attire: the characteristic faded black jeans and boots, topped with an uncharacteristically crispy-looking white button-up. “What’s with the get-up? You aren’t even going to the courthouse till tomorrow.”

He immediately shushes her, looking behind himself conspiratorially. “We haven’t told anyone yet, so pipe down. They just think they’re here for some drinks and card games.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll keep quiet about it. But you’re making me feel wildly underdressed.”

As she steps past him into the foyer, he looks over her outfit, raising a questioning brow. “Where the hell did you get _that_ shirt? I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before.”

Until now, she hasn’t really considered how suspicious it is: she’s wearing the old Motorhead shirt James had left at her house a couple weeks ago, tucked into a pair of high-waisted green shorts. Suddenly, she’s mentally kicking herself for not thinking it through.

“Oh, this? I just got it from a friend,” she explains halfheartedly 

“Huh. Looks familiar.”

Maggie starts making her way toward the living room, hoping to seem casual. “Really? That’s weird, isn’t it. Where is everybody?”

Kirk closes the door and comes to her side. “In the kitchen. Let’s get you a drink, you need to play catch up.”

Gathered around the kitchen counter is a cast of characters that she hasn’t seen all in the same place in what feels like far too long: Tori is standing by the island, mixing a giant pitcher of something red with a wooden spoon, chatting to Jason who leans beside her; Lars is standing with drink in hand, talking animatedly to both James and a woman that Maggie vaguely recognizes but can’t put her finger on. Aside from the addition of the mystery woman, it’s practically a shot-for-shot scene from the fateful night that she can hardly remember -- the night all of them first met.

While the image makes her heart warm with affection, it also makes a tiny pebble of uneasiness roll about inside her stomach. It’s been over a month since she’s spoken to Jason -- not since the incident. Since, he’s left a singular voicemail on her answering machine, apologizing profusely and berating himself for being so drunk, but she never replied for lack of having anything to say. She isn’t mad at him, just a little put off. She’s not sure what more she’s able to do except politely avoid him.

And then there’s the matter of James. As soon as she enters the room, his eyes flicker over to her, and Maggie has to suppress the compulsion to walk over and simply fling herself into his arms. Not that he’d mind. But now that they’ve started some sort of confidential relationship, it’s unclear how she should navigate things in front of friends. As of yet, no one knows about it but the two of them.

Tori is the first to speak up. “Hey, Maggie!” She drops her red-stained spoon onto the counter. “I’ve been wondering when you’d finally get here. You’ve already missed three rounds of shots, dude.”

Maggie embraces her, relishing the familiar smell of her friend’s coconut shampoo. “Yeah, Kirk was telling me how I’d need to catch up to you guys.”

“Luckily, you’ve made it just in time for the sangria.”

“Good timing.”

“Hey, you remember Skylar, right?” Tori takes her hand and pulls her in the direction of the trio in the corner. “From my med school class?”

Now, the familiar face of the newcomer clicks in her head. “Oh, yeah, of course I do. We went out together once or twice, right?”

The woman in question smiles amenably. “A couple years ago, yeah. Nice to see you again, Maggie.”

Mags is surprised she didn’t remember the girl sooner -- it’s hard to forget a face this beautiful. The woman is nearly a head taller than her, and every part of her is angular and curvy and wonderful. She’s wearing a black dress that once again has Maggie realizing how severely underdressed she is. No wonder Lars is standing so close -- the woman is just his type. 

“Has Lars been talking your ear off?” she asks.

Skylar smirks, but Lars immediately comes to his own defense. “Hey, we were just having a nice conversation about local sculptors, a topic _you_ might actually appreciate, so lay off.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “I’m really going to need a drink if we’re gonna have this conversation. I’ve been doing too much work-related shit lately as it is.”

Tori takes this as her cue to start dragging her friend off again toward the pitcher she’d just been mixing. As she’s being led away, Maggie takes a moment to make brief eye contact with James, giving him a silent greeting with her eyes that she feels too shy to verbalize in front of everyone else.

Tori prepares her a brimming cup of sangria, for which Maggie is grateful. The blond girl moves away to find a straw that she insists is necessary for consuming the drink, leaving Maggie standing at the counter beside a rather quiet Jason. He looks at her with inquisitive eyes, as if requesting her forgiveness without actually wanting to say it.

“Hi, Jason,” she says, just to squash any illusion of awkwardness. She really doesn’t want this to be weirder than it has to be.

“Hey.” He clears his throat, takes a sip from his beer. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Yourself?”

“Good.”

“Enjoying being home?”

“Absolutely.” He looks down at the counter momentarily, then finds her eyes again. “Listen, what happened at Lars’ house was --”

Tori returns right on time, shoving a bright pink straw in front of Maggie’s line of sight. “Found it!”

“Thank God. Wasn’t sure how I’d be able to drink this thing without it.”

“You can’t really enjoy a fruity mixed drink without a straw,” Tori defends herself. Though laughing inwardly, Maggie has to agree.

“Hey, is anybody up for a game of cards?” Kirk suddenly asks above the chatter. The room collectively assents.

They gather round the center island, Kirk breaking out a worn-looking deck of cards and shuffling. He explains the rules of the game Eights while dealing, and soon they’re all studying their cards intently and going round the table, discarding onto the pile or drawing from the deck till they’ve found something they can lay down.

Lars is abysmal at the game, for some reason unable to make a move without muttering to himself under his breath or scratching his head quizzically, as if each move may be his last. Skylar secretively peeks over his shoulder at his cards whenever he’s not looking. Kirk and Tori, of course, can’t manage to make a single move without flirting with one another, and while it makes most everyone sick, Maggie for one can’t help but smiling to herself. It feels like she’s harboring a secret, one of the only people round the kitchen table who actually knows why they’re gathered here tonight.

Every now and then, against her better judgment, Maggie finds herself glancing up at James over her cards. He meets her gaze often, giving her a coveted smirk. It makes her heart jump with excitement. She’s thankful that the rest of them are too drunk or absorbed in the game to notice the match of eye hockey they're playing.

During the third or fourth game they play, Jason clumsily puts down a five of spades on top of a two of diamonds, which Lars immediately calls out.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” He snatches the card up and tosses it back at Jason. “Cheater.”

“I’m not cheating! I just wasn’t thinking,” Jason spits back, looking frazzled.

With a devious little smirk, James says, “Newkid isn’t very good at controlling his impulses.”

Jason looks like he’s been struck by a bolt of thunder, then throws a quick guilty glance at Maggie, who stares down at her own cards in amused shock. Thankfully, no one seems to acknowledge it.

The game disbands shortly after that when Lars gets frustrated with his “shitty hand” and throws down his cards. He and Tori eagerly agree that Twister would be a much easier, fairer game for them to play and go to rummage in Kirk’s closet to find the box. Kirk leads Skylar into the living room, chatting to her about how she’d met his “wife” in med school, and Jason trails after awkwardly. He sends Maggie another apologetic glance as he goes, but she pretends not to see it. She instead moves to the fridge to find something to refill her glass with. James hangs back, leaning on the counter and nonchalantly taking pulls from his beer bottle.

“Hey, Hetfield,” she says amicably as she withdraws a bottle of rum from the refrigerator. She sets it on the counter next to him and goes back to look for something to mix it with. “Having a good time?”

“Certainly. Are you?”

She returns to his side, not looking into his eyes while she pours Bacardi into her glass. But she can feel the heat radiating from his body. “Sure am. I’d say you’re just here for the booze, but we both know why you’re really here.”

He hums his confirmation. It’s one of the two secrets between them tonight. “Wonder when they’re going to announce it.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t blurted it out yet. They’re showing a lot more self control than I was expecting.”

“Speaking of self control.” His grin is visible from the corner of her eye. “Nice shirt.”

In spite of herself, she grins too. “You like it? I found it on my floor."

“Huh. How’d that get there?”

Maggie meets his eyes, feels her chest grow hot when she sees the devilish look in their blue depths. “Someone must’ve left it there by accident. Hope they don’t miss it.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll come back over to get it eventually.”

“They might have to take it off me first.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

His hand reaches beneath the cover of the counter to give her thigh a squeeze. She can feel the calluses on his fingers and can’t forget how those rough fingers felt running along all the sensitive spots of her body. Reaching down, she gives his hand a tight squeeze with her own before capping the bottle of rum and returning it to the fridge.

“I hope you fucks are out there limbering up and not fighting, ‘cause you’re about to get your asses handed to you,” Lars calls out from the living room.

With one last wink, James turns and leaves to join the rest of the group. Maggie slowly gathers herself and strides into the living room as well.

Laid out on the floor is a large plastic map, dotted with colored spots. It’s something Maggie feels like she hasn’t seen in ages. Kirk is standing holding the box, examining the instructions on the back as if he’s forgotten some complexity in the rules, and Maggie reads the font on the front: _Jumbo Twister._

“Jumbo?” she asks.

Looking up, Kirk grins. “For adults.”

She just snorts. Of course he’d own something like this.

Lars, assuming the role of team leader as always, diplomatically lays out the rules: three people per game, with a rock-paper-scissors tournament to establish the players. Maggie feels completely juvenile standing in a group of six other adults, smacking her first and miming scissors with her fingers, but again she reminds herself that the usual decorum doesn’t apply here.

As luck has it -- or maybe it’s some cruel cosmic joke, she thinks -- the tournament establishes the first round of competitors to be herself, Jason, and James. She’s silently surprised that James is even willing to participate, but is not opposed to any opportunity for her to be bent over in front of him with reasonable cause.

Jason is looking completely uncomfortable, as if this is his nightmare. Maggie herself is trying to play it off as completely unremarkable that she should be crouched beside him on a Twister mat, their ankles brushing.

As Kirk flicks the spinner, and orders Maggie to put her left foot on blue, Tori leaves Skylar’s side to twine her arm with his and look at him with a secret smile as she says aloud, “Guys, Kirk and I actually have something we want to tell you.”

Maggie’s heart speeds up a little bit. She cranes her neck to look at them. Both Skylar and Lars look on attentively, and Jason peers between his legs to get a better view.

“There’s a reason we gathered you here tonight,” Tori continues. “I know it might seem a little sudden, but Kirk and I decided to get married tomorrow. At a courthouse. Legally.”

The adoring grin Kirk gives his fiance makes Maggie swoon. “Consider this our official bachelor-bachelorette party.”

Half the room cheers. Maggie just smiles knowingly to herself. Skylar runs over to wrap the two in a choking embrace while Lars announces loudly, “This calls for shots!” He darts off to the kitchen, hair bouncing behind him.

“This is amazing!” she can hear Skylar saying. “Congrats, you two!”

From behind her, still bent over the mat, Maggie can hear James say, “Finally.”

Though grinning infectiously, Kirk hasn’t forgotten his duty as game operator. He flicks the spinner again and says, “Jason, right hand yellow.”

Shuffling is heard as the bassist readjusts his footing and places his hand on the yellow dot right next to Maggie’s. He’s now parallel with her, only a foot away from her face. She tries not to look at him, but can feel him staring pointedly, trying to make eye contact.

“Look, Maggie,” he says quietly under the cover of excited chatter, “I can tell you’re avoiding me and I really don’t want this to be awkward.”

“Nor do I,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

Kirk continues: “Maggie, right foot red.”

She moves her foot, thankfully angling herself just slightly away from the bassist. But he leans toward her, still searching for eye contact.

“I fucked up, I get it, and I’m not trying to get in your pants again or anything, but I still would like to be friends -- “

“James, right hand red,” Kirk says.

More shuffling. Now James is pivoted closer to them, and Maggie is painfully aware of the close proximity of the three of them, James absolutely within earshot of this uncomfortable interaction.

“Jason, left foot blue.”

He slides his foot over. “At least accept my apology?”

“Jason, I don’t think now is the time for this conversation.”

“But things feel weird between us -- “

“Hey, Mags,” James suddenly says to her right. She turns to see him right over her shoulder, contorted unnaturally into a backwards crab-walk position, his head hanging back to look into her eyes. He smiles softly. “Come here.”

Her heart speeds up. She can feel Jason too close beside her, can hear the little plastic spinner whirring and the girls talking animatedly. But she leans as far as her body will allow to angle her head closer to James.

Without preamble, he cranes his neck over and kisses her right on the lips, in the middle of everything. Maggie is so shocked that her eyes stay wide open, but feels them fluttering closed when James lifts a hand to pull her even closer.

Beside them, Jason is sputtering.

Lars’ heavy-footed stride can be heard returning to the room, followed by a loud exclamation of, “What the fuck am I witnessing right now?”

Maggie can’t hold the position any longer. She tumbles to her ass, embarrassment bubbling up out of her throat in the form of loud, hysterical laughter. Lars is standing at the edge of the living room, holding a tray filled with shot glasses, looking as if he’s just witnessed a train derailing.

“Am I drunk? Are _you_ drunk? What the fuck is going on?” he asks.

Maggie covers her face and snickers into her hands, rolling onto her side. James just grins at him without offering explanation.

“Well, Jase, I guess you won,” Kirk says, spinner dropping to his side. “All things considered.”

Between giggles, Maggie peeks through her fingers to see Jason still crouched over the plastic mat, utterly dumbfounded and all thoughts of apologizing gone. It makes her laugh harder. She’s only able to collect herself when Lars sets the tray down and says, “If you fucks don’t get up right now I am going to take all seven of these shots by myself. I'm going to need them.”

*******

They toast “to marriages, legitimate and otherwise,” each downing an icy cold shot of some expensive vodka before slamming the glasses back down onto the tray. The liquor burns Maggie’s throat yet somehow still feels smoother than the lingering burn of embarrassment inside of her.

She’s not upset with James for doing what he did -- if anything, it spares her not only Jason’s excessive apologizing, but the tension of keeping their secret ordeal stuffed inside. Still, she wasn’t thinking he would be so brazen about revealing it. Or that he would be revealing it at all.

Thankfully, it seems quickly forgotten, either intentionally or by happenstance. Skylar is still gushing about the courthouse marriage, nodding eagerly as Tori explains the arrangements to her. Kirk and Jason are halfheartedly attempting to organize the next round of Twister and straightening out the mat on the floor. But Lars seems unable to leave the event behind. As soon as everyone’s turned away from the empty shot glasses, he grabs Maggie’s arm and drags her into the kitchen.

“You sneaky fuck,” he says, leaning close to her as if trying to shield the conversation from prying ears. “You and Hetfield? Since when? There’s no way in hell that’s the first time that’s happened.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Do two people who resent each other’s existence commonly make a truce by sucking face on a Twister mat?”

She shrugs, smilingly bashfully as she glances off into the distance. “Twister really brings people together. I’m sure it’s happened loads of times.”

“You can’t fool me.” He lets go of her arm to fold both of his over his chest. “I can sniff out sexual tension like a bloodhound. I knew that shirt looked familiar, too. I’m no dummy.”

“Look, I didn’t know he was going to do that, either. What do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me you’re fucking James.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“So you’re not fucking James? 

“No, I _am_ fucking him.”

“A-ha!” He grins triumphantly. “Gotcha. When were you going to tell me? You know I need to know these things.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes his shoulder. “Get out of here. Like you really want me to tell you the details about my sex life with your bandmate?”

“Actually, I do.” He turns to the fridge and produces the vodka bottle again, grabbing a couple glasses. “But we can save that for a different time. For now, I need another drink. And so do you. Because I am going to give you _so_ much shit for this.”

Maggie groans. “You know that’s the exact reason it was easier not to tell anyone, right?”

“Well, cat’s out of the bag, toots. Can’t avoid it now. Let’s make a toast. ‘To keeping it in the family.’”

“Oh, God, Lars. That is disgusting.”

“Hey, you said Tori was your sister. And if your sister is marrying Kirk, who is in effect James’ brother, then you are fucking your brother. I don’t make the rules, pal.”

Just as they’re raising their glasses, James enters the room, still grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Lars’ eyes light up when he sees him, immediately reaching for another glass. “Wanna get in on this, Het? We were just toasting to Maggie sucking your dick.”

“Shit, I’ll toast to that,” James says.

Maggie puts a hand over her eyes, cheeks positively burning. “I hate both of you.”

“That’s not what you were saying the other night,” James points out cheekily. He moves behind her and slides an arm around her waist.

Lars cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in ages.

 

 

 

**July 28th, 1993**

Maggie is bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to head to the courthouse. But the phone rings before she can even get to it to call a cab for herself. She’s expecting it to be Tori, double-checking that Maggie will be there, but it’s someone else entirely. The man she and Lars had spoken to at the gallery opening last weekend is one the line, and he’s asking Maggie if she can meet him at the gallery again to arrange the purchase of one of the paintings he’d inquired about on Saturday. It completely throws her off, but she accepts without a second thought.

Immediately, she calls for a cab and then dials Kirk’s number, knowing Tori will be there. As expected, her friend picks up the phone, and Maggie apologetically tries to explain the unexpected development as best she can.

“No way! That’s awesome, Mags,” Tori says, and she sounds genuinely happy. “You can’t pass that up. I’d skip the courthouse, too, if I were you.”

“I’m not skipping it, just postponing it. I’ll try to wrap it up as fast as I can and meet you guys there.”

“Are you sure? It’s no biggie. Your loverboy will be here to be the witness anyway, so we can just meet up somewhere afterward to celebrate if it’s easier.”

“No way, dude. I’ll just wait for you guys outside. Wouldn’t wanna miss your first debut into the world as newlyweds.”

She can hear Tori smiling through the phone. “Alright, then, we’ll catch you outside of the courthouse.”

Maggie wishes her well, hangs up the phone, and double-checks her appearance before dashing out the door to catch her taxi.

*******

The painting business doesn’t take long at all. The railway drops her off a couple blocks from the city courthouse building, and Maggie is grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs and enjoy the weather after a successful sale. It’s beautiful today -- not oppressively hot as it’s been recently, all cloudless blue skies and brilliant sunlight. The tree-lined streets seem overly saturated with color. Maggie’s heart feels light as she takes it all in.

City Hall looms in the distance, magnifying in size as she grows nearer. Truly, it’s one of the most impressive buildings in San Francisco: an enormous white stone monolith carved into pillars and peaks, topped with a magnificent dome sporting a golden spire. It looks to Maggie like the place royalty go to sign parchment documents or argue over legislature. It is the perfect place to sign a marriage license, if such a place exists.

Maggie’s shoes click on the stone as she approaches. Glancing at her watch, she estimates that they have probably been inside for about an hour now, which means it won’t be long till they come bursting out the front doors hand-in-hand as official newlyweds. The thought makes her smile. _Finally_. Climbing the grandiose front steps, she chooses the rightmost archway to wait in and leans against the cool stone in the sun.

The breeze rifles softly through the palmetto trees lining the front walk as she waits, and she watches their leaves wave to pass the time. Each time the front doors behind her squeak open, she turns to peek at who’s coming out, but several people file out of the building every few minutes without any sight of the three familiar faces she’s waiting to see.

Eventually, after she’s been waiting for about thirty minutes, the two doors swing open, and Maggie knows immediately that it’s her party. She can hear Tori’s voice, and she starts to smile -- until she realizes that the voice is yelling.

“You couldn’t have made up your mind about all of this _before_ we got all dressed up and came here, Kirk? Really? I feel like a fucking idiot,” Tori is saying.

When Maggie turns, she can see her best friend storming out of the front doors with her hands in the air, gesturing wildly as she talks to a flustered looking Kirk who trails behind her. They’re both dressed in their finery -- Tori in a baby blue sundress while Kirk is wearing a shirt-and-tie get up -- and James comes walking out after them, also wearing a button-up. He, too, looks slightly put off.

“How was I supposed to know I’d change my mind last minute?” Kirk says. “I’m fucking sorry, okay? I don’t know how else to get you to believe me!”

“Guys?” Maggie steps from the shadows, catching three sets of angry eyes.

Spotting her, Tori eagerly turns away from Kirk and stomps over, looking on the verge of tears. Maggie takes her in her arms, knowing she has to comfort her best friend right now, but completely perplexed as to why.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“This fucking asshole waits until we fill out the license application and get all the way up to the marriage commissioner to decide that maybe he doesn’t want to marry me after all.” Turning out of Maggie’s arms, she looks right at Kirk and adds, “And he can’t even fucking tell me _why_.”

Maggie glances to Kirk, who is looking entirely apologetic but a little irritated, too. Behind him, James is standing with his arm folded, hardly giving her a second glance. His bad mood hangs around him like a stench.

“Maybe I don’t _know_ why,” Kirk says desperately. His hands fly to his hair, a characteristic Kirk sign of stress. “I’m just fucking standing up there thinking about it and it doesn’t seem right, just us sneaking into City Fucking Hall on a random ass Wednesday to get married behind everyone’s backs -- “

“We told everyone!” Tori shouts, stepping closer. “What was the point of the party last night? Why invite all these people over to tell them what we’re doing if you’re not even going through with it? Who the hell else is this ‘everyone’ that you’re so god damn worried about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, my fucking _parents_ , maybe?”

“It’s not my fault you’re too chickenshit to call them and tell them the truth! What the fuck? My parents have known from the beginning. Why would you lie to them?”

They’re in each other’s faces now, screaming. Maggie stands on the sidelines, still too shocked by the turn of events to know what to do. How could it suddenly all go so wrong? She looks to James, who only meets her eyes for one stony-faced moment before looking away and shaking his head. Her stomach sinks.

“I wouldn’t expect you to fucking get it, because you aren’t constantly living beneath an all-seeing spotlight, but a fucking sham marriage that pops up in the papers one morning doesn’t exactly look good,” Kirk’s saying, “So what the fuck else was I supposed to tell them? ‘Sorry, Mom, I fucked up again? Drank too much and did something stupid, _again?’_ I apologize for not wanting to disappoint them just to save you some fucking humiliation.”

The look on Tori’s face is one part heartbreak, another part outrage. “It would have been nice to know that I was just a disappointment to you before you made me want to fucking marry you for real, you self-centered asshole.”

“This might be real hard for you to consider, Victoria, but this isn’t all about you for once.”

Tori’s expression becomes so deadly that Maggie is already running forward to grab her by the time she lunges forward.

“It’s about fucking _us!_ Not you, not me, us! When you say you love someone, it should fucking mean something! It should mean that you care enough to consider their feelings before deluding them into some stupid fantasy that won’t ever actually happen!”

“You should be fucking glad I didn’t just sign the stupid thing and divorce your ass in three months when it doesn’t work!” Kirk spits back. 

Fighting against Maggie’s hold, Tori reaches to rip the skull-shaped ring from her hand. “You can have this back, you piece of shit,” she snarls as she whips it at him.

The ring flies through the air and pelts Kirk hard in the forehead.  James is wise enough to take hold of Kirk’s arms, too, as the guitarist looks as if he’s about to strangle Tori right there on the courthouse steps. The ring tinkles along the ground, lost in the fray.

Maggie’s heart is thundering in her chest, adrenaline rushing. The months-old guilt starts rearing inside her again and making her sick to her stomach.

As the two scream more obscenities at each other, all she can think to do is start dragging Tori away by both arms, down the steps and toward the road. But the girl only goes half-willingly, her attention still centered on shouting at Kirk.

“Six whole months you string me along, make me wait for you while you travel the world, while you’re probably out there fucking other people -- “

“Fuck you,” he growls. James is also attempting to pull him away. “I haven’t even _touched_ another person since I’ve met you, but now I can see that was a big fucking waste of time.”

“ _Guys_ ,” Maggie says, desperately trying to intervene. She has to wrap her arms around Tori’s entire trembling frame to restrain her. “Seriously, let’s cool off for a bit and have this conversation somewhere else -- “

No one is listening.

“I hate you,” Tori says, venom seeping out with each word. “I look like such an asshole because of you. All because you can’t just fucking commit.”

“Even after this, I’m still committed to you, but you’re probably too fucking big-headed to realize,” Kirk says sourly.

“Let’s go, Kirk,” James says, tugging him in the opposite direction. The way he refuses to look at Maggie makes her queasy -- it feels like she’s done something wrong. But everything was okay just hours before.

As she’s forced away, Tori cries, “Don’t touch my shit. All the stuff I left at your house will be gone by tomorrow. I swear, if anything is missing -- “

“Yeah, like I have any need to steal any of your cheap shit,” Kirk spits bitterly.

Even through the confusion, this has Maggie exasperatedly rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on, you two -- “

“Stay the fuck out of it,” James suddenly snaps. Her eyes move to meet his, and the look in them makes her heart sink further into the pit of her stomach. “You'll only fuck it up more. If it weren’t for your dumb ass, we wouldn’t even be here right now.”

The statement hits her so hard she forgets to breathe. She wants to say something, but can’t. Why would he say that? It’s as if he knows how to put his finger right on the guilty spot inside her and _push_. And when she looks into his eyes, they are filled with such disgust that she almost doesn’t recognize him. As if right now, he’s an entirely different person.

But the look is vaguely familiar, and suddenly she remembers -- _this_ is the James she knew for so long. The James she spent months hating, the true James Hetfield. And the realization hurts so much that she has to turn away before she breaks apart right in the middle of the street.

As she drags her friend off toward the corner to hail a cab, she can tell Tori is still screaming insults at Kirk down the street, but the blood roars so loudly in her ears that she can hardly even hear.

 

 

 

**August 17th, 1993**

Weeks pass. Some days, it seems like a miracle that they do, each hour drawn out long and stagnant, filled with uninspired brushstrokes on canvases Maggie wishes she could just throw away and cups of coffee that grow cold on the windowsill before she even takes the first sip. Other days slip by fast like the pages of a flipbook, each one just a fleeting image in her mind before it’s on to the next. Some of the days are lonely. Some of them just feel empty.

Others, like today, are miraculously content. Maggie’s morning of painting idly and listening to the radio takes a sudden turn when Lars shows up at her door, asking her if she’s interested in a day of laying around inside and drinking foreign beers. Of course she’s interested. He can con her into doing anything.

Currently, they’re standing in front of the coolers in the bodega on the corner, attempting to agree on what to buy. Lars has been peering into the glass for what feels like hours, hand on his chin and brow furrowed as he meticulously examines the selection. Maggie leans on the glass nearby so she can get watch on in amusement.

“You know, it’s not that critical,” she says. “Whatever you pick will be gone within a couple hours, regardless.”

“It _is_ that critical,” he says. His eyes dart between twelve-packs. “This isn’t amateur hour.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Just pick Guinness. It’s foreign enough.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Guinness is like beginner shit.”

“My apologies, sir,” she says. “Did not mean to insult your refined tastes.”

“I’ll let it slide this time.” 

Maggie can’t take it anymore; she has to turn away. Lars remains in the same position, looking through the cooler glass as if he’s studying for a final exam. While he continues to ponder, Maggie browses the shelf behind them, plucking up a generic bag of chips that will hopefully complement whatever beer Lars ends up picking, if he ever does.

After a couple more minutes, he gives up and grabs a case from the cooler. Maggie grins as she follows him toward the checkout line, noting smugly that he’s chosen Guinness after all.

Outside, the sky is overcast, and every so often a tiny pinprick of rain spatters on Maggie’s face as they stride down the sidewalk. She and Lars keep a brisk pace on the way back to her apartment, hoping to stay one step ahead of the storm that is sure to be coming.

“Have you heard anything from Tori or Kirk lately?” Lars asks as they round the corner to her street.

She shrugs, hitching the chip bag under her arm. “Here and there. Seems like things are back to normal. Surprise, surprise. She made me go back to City Hall to find the ring she’d pegged at him so I assumed after that everything would smooth over.”

The mention of City Hall sends an image flashing through her mind -- the memory of James’ disgusted eyes boring into her on the courthouse steps -- which she immediately brushes off. _Not now_ , she thinks.

“Huh. So I take it you didn’t get the invitation to come have drinks at Kirk’s tonight, then.”

“Is that why you asked if I’d heard from them?” 

“Well, yeah. I didn’t wanna just bring it up if you hadn’t been invited.”

“You did anyways,” she says with a half-chuckle. But a part of her her heart hurts, just a little. “Those assholes didn’t even ask.”

“Don’t feel bad. Everyone knows how... _strained_ things are between you and, uh, some of the people who may be in attendance.”

She knows he’s right, but it doesn’t make the lack of invitation feel any better. Still, she knows that if she doesn’t joke about it, it will worm its way into her head. “Yeah, I don’t blame them for not wanting to watch Jason cling to my leg and apologize in five different languages.”

As if that’s who she’d have a problem with.

Lars snorts to himself just as they arrive at Maggie’s front stoop. She leads the way into the building, and pauses briefly to retrieve the fistful of envelopes waiting in her mailbox before continuing up the stairs. Lars follows suit, lugging the Guinness.

“Speaking of Jason,” he says, kicking off his shoes as they enter the living room, “Has he called yet this week?”

“Not this week. Knock on wood.”

Since the last get-together at Kirk’s house, Jason’s reparation efforts have restarted twofold. Maggie has received a phone call from him each week, all of which contain a similar script of apologies; he’s even dropped by twice now, looking truly remorseful as he stands in her doorway and repeats again and again how bad he fucked up. In spite of Maggie’s multiple reassurances that everything is okay, that there is no bad blood, he still feels the need to impress upon her how truly sorry he is for what happened at Lars’.

“At least you know he really means it.” Lars drops onto the couch and immediately tears into the box of beer.

Maggie joins him, stretching out and putting her feet in his lap. “Yeah, I guess. Give me a beer before I get paranoid that he’s going to knock on my door in five minutes.”

He does as he’s told, handing Maggie a can. The cool metal chills her palm as she cracks it open and raises it to her lips. Lars mirrors the movement, taking a sip of his own.

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I still think you should come with me tonight,” he says.

“Even if they _had_ invited me, I wouldn’t go. And they didn’t invite me.”

“Maybe they haven’t gotten to it yet. Bet your phone will be ringing any minute now.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes and reaches forward to the stack of mail she’d dropped on the coffee table. “Good one, Lars.”

“What else are you gonna do?”

“I’m not going.”

“Sit around moping?”

“I’m _not_ going,” she repeats.

“Paint some frowny faces and feel sorry for yourself?”

“Lars, I’m not -- “

She stops short when she finds a peculiarly addressed envelope in the mail she’s sorting through. It’s a square little envelope with a heart-shaped stamp and a return address that reads “Mr. and Mrs. Hammett.” Internally, she knows what this must be, but to find it mixed in among bills and spam mail is so unexpected she can only stare at it with her mouth hung open.

“What? What’s that?” Lars cranes around to see what she’s gaping at.

Maggie closes her mouth and shakes her head, gingerly tearing the letter open. “It’s from Tori and Kirk.”

“Huh?” Now he’s pushing her feet off his lap so he can slide closer and watch her open the envelope. “Why would they be sending you mail? If they really wanted you to come tonight, they could’ve just called.”

Maggie pauses for a moment to shoot him a deadpan look, but he still doesn’t seem to get it. She just shakes her head again and proceeds to withdraw the piece of paper inside.

It’s a simple, square-shaped note with a flowery graphic at the top and a brief message written in black script. Maggie already knows exactly what it is, but she reads it aloud for Lars’ benefit: “Join us for the wedding of Kirk Hammett and Victoria Henrichs. Saturday, September 4th, four o’clock PM at The Olympic Club.”

Lars gawks at the invite, looks to Maggie, back at the invite, then finally back at her with his mouth wide open. “What the fuck is that?”

“Did you not just listen to me read the thing?”

“No, I know, but what -- since when? No one told me!”

“This,” she says, waving the envelope, “Is them telling us. I guess this means Kirk finally told his parents they weren’t actually married in the first place.”

“And they’re getting married at a _country club?_ ”

The idea of country clubs, golfing greens, and golf balls flying into the distance make Maggie’s mind turn to a certain man she can’t bear think about, so she brushes off Lars’ comment.

“This is destined to be the most awkward event of the century,” she says. “I imagine half the people in attendance will be confused as to why they’re attending the wedding of an already-married couple.”

“This is juicy. Feels like we’re in on some big conspiracy.” He’s grinning like a little kid as he reaches forward to tear into the bag of Lays. “Fuck, I need a chip.”

She snorts. “The drama making you hungry?”

“Starved,” he says through a mouthful of potato chip.

Maggie takes her own chip, and bites off a piece while her mind wanders over the implications of the officially declared Hammett wedding. That it surprises her makes her feel a little guilty, a little sour -- Tori has seemed slightly distant since what had happened a few weeks before at City Hall. Maggie can’t blame her. It was embarrassing, particularly because Tori had dragged her back there not even two days later to scour the steps in search of the beloved ring that she had beamed Kirk in the face with. Not that Maggie can blame her at all for reconciling so quickly and so easily. If James were to call her today, she’d be just as forgiving.

But that brings her to another train of thought -- James. The one place she’s been trying to keep her mind from going, if only to spare herself the stress. The number of times she’s picked up the phone and started to dial his number before slamming it back on the hook would be embarrassing, if she would ever admit it to anybody. But she just can’t call. The idea of speaking to him now twists her emotions all into knots.

It isn’t just because of the way he’d acted that day -- so unlike the James she was just starting to get to know -- but because of the fear that he truly did despise her as much as that last glance he’d given had let on. She can’t face him now, despite how terribly she misses him. His touch. His smile. The individual creases in each knuckle, the sound of his feet moving through her apartment in the middle of the night, all the little things she had memorized about him without knowing those memories were all she would have left.

“Maggie?” Lars waves a hand in front of her face. “Hello?”

“Jeez, sorry.” She uses both hands to rub her eyes, bring herself back to the real world. “Was lost in thought.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Nothing crucial,” she says. “Just stuff.”

Lars gives her a dubious look. She stares back at him, hoping to convey her innocence. He clearly isn’t convinced.

“You’ve got to go to that wedding,” he tells her.

“I know I do. I know.”

“Can’t avoid Hetfield forever.”

Her stomach sinks. “You always know what I’m thinking, you asshole.”

“What else could be running through your head as you stare off into the distance wistfully?”

She slumps further down into the couch, putting an arm over her eyes. “I can’t help it. I wish I could just get over it, but every so often the fucker just creeps back into my mind and makes me overthink _everything_.”

“What is there to overthink?”

“All of it. What I did wrong, the exact moment it all turned around, whether he was only in it for the sex the entire time and I was just too starry-eyed to notice. What isn’t there to overthink? 

“You can’t really believe that.” Lars rolls his eyes, but when she just stares at him helplessly, his disbelief is doubled. “You seriously think Hetfield would spend so much time with you just for _sex?_ Not to rub it in your face, but that man could sleep with a different woman every night with a snap of his fat fingers.”

“I know that.”

“Furthermore,” Lars continues, leaning forward to get her attention, “That man does not like hugging, cuddling, public displays of affection, none of it. And on top of _that_ , I know for a fact that man enjoyed your presence, because he willingly contorted himself on a Twister board just to be near you, which is not a thing his pride would ever let him do otherwise.”

Though Maggie’s inner voice is reluctant to believe a word Lars is saying, she peeks at him from beneath her arm anyways, studying his face for any sign to validate her doubt. But he looks entirely serious.

“So stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mags. Really.” He slaps an affectionate hand down onto her knee. “The only thing you should be pitying yourself over is for choosing to become interested in a man who’s too proud to call you after he throws a tantrum.”

Maggie groans and rolls to her side, reaching for her beer. “Okay. I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. James likes me but we’re still never going to talk again. Got it.”

“Just fucking _call_ him, you moron.”

“Not happening.”

Lars throws his hands up in exasperation again before deciding that maybe stuffing his face with chips is a better use of his mouth than continuing to jabber at her about something she’s clearly set her mind on. His forlorn chewing can be heard as he reaches forward for the remote.

They spend the rest of the afternoon on the couch like this, alternating between handing the bag of chips back and forth and changing the station on the TV. By the time Lars leaves, they’ve killed the 12-pack of Guinness, and Lars teeters out the door in a way that makes her skeptical about his ability to drive. He promises to call when he gets to Kirk’s.

Surprisingly, he does call. Maggie can hear music and talking in the background as Lars assure her he’s safe, and suddenly the phone is stolen away from him and Tori’s voice comes bursting over the line.

“Mags, hey! Lars just told me you weren’t coming and that we never invited you. What gives? I swear Kirk and I sat down this afternoon and left the message together, but we must have dialed the wrong number. I’m so sorry, dude. You should still come! Party is in full swing.”

Maggie politely declines, brushing off Tori’s many insistences that they’d love to see her face. When she hangs up the phone, she takes a deep breath and lays in the dark, staring at the living room ceiling.

She’s probably just being crazy, but she swore she could feel James’ presence over the phone line, lurking somewhere in the room.

 

 

 

**September 4, 1993**

The country club looks like a decadent pastry waiting to be cut into: stacked and tiered like a three-layer cake, frosted with fluffy white garlands that dangle from the red-tiled roof, dozens of windows gleaming like spun sugar, green gumdrop trees lining the base, pristine emerald grass spreading out in all directions like a smooth layer of fondant. It looks like a birthday cake. Or, more appropriately, like an unusual wedding cake. Maggie is awed as her taxi pulls into the circular drive out front.

 _I knew Kirk was excessive, but not this excessive,_ she thinks.

But then she thinks of Tori -- whom she’s seen a lot more of since receiving the wedding invite -- and how all of this over-the-top fluffy stuff must be making her feel like a princess, and the thought makes her smile.

After paying her cab fare, Maggie steps out onto the stone walkway and gazes around. A few people are milling about, chatting in their three-piece suits and slinky gowns. The glass double doors at the top of the steps are wide open, and inside more people can be seen standing around talking. As Maggie mounts the steps to make her way inside, she passes a long-haired man with dark sunglasses smoking a cigar. Yes, this is definitely Kirk’s wedding.

Inside, some form of classical piano music tinkles softly over a PA system. The interior of the clubhouse is just as immaculate as the outside, and everyone within seeing distance is dressed opulently, too -- Maggie can’t help but feel slightly out of place in the deep red floor-length dress she’d just purchased the day before when all these people here look as if they were born in such finery. She always feels uncomfortable in situations like these.

But she forgets that this is the first time she’s worn a fancy gown when she catches sight of Lars, who turns unashamedly away from the conversation he’s immersed in to walk her way with a beaming grin.

“Hey, you,” he says, approaching with open arms. “You look fuckin’ _hot_. This is a wedding, not a fuckin’ casino, you know.”

She embraces him tight. “I’m gonna take that as a good thing.”

“Hell yeah. You look like one of those chicks they send around with trays of champagne and shit.”

“You look pretty good yourself,” she says, holding him at arm’s length to inspect his suit-and-tie combo. “How did they get you into a tie? Do you even know how to tie a tie?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Skylar tied it for me.”

Her brows shoot far up her forehead. “Skylar? Are you two, like, doing it? 

“Don’t act so surprised. You might be pleased to know that some people actually enjoy hearing the sound of my voice. 

“Then she and I have something in common,” Maggie says. She takes his arm in hers and follows his lead toward the back doors. “Is she here today?”

“Nah, she had some work shit, saving lives and whatnot. You should be glad, ‘cause otherwise I would be holding her arm, not yours.”

Now it’s Maggie’s turn to roll her eyes. “Way to remind me how utterly alone I am.”

“You’re not alone. You’ve got me.” He flashes her a straight-toothed smile. “For now. 

“You are such a jerk. 

“Really, though, you’re not alone. See? Jason is right over there. 

Maggie follows the trail of his pointing finger to a certain shaved head across the lawn. Across rows of folding chairs stands Jason, and when he spots them coming down the marble back steps, he smiles sheepishly and waves.

She waves back, if only to save herself from elbowing Lars in the ribs. “Perfect, yes, exactly who I want to spend my time with. I think I’d rather be lonely.”

Lars is smiling smugly as they descend the steps onto the grass. The rows of white chairs separate them from a wicker altar threaded with pink and red roses, baby’s breath poking out between the big blooms. With the clear blue sky as a backdrop, it’s almost a sight out of a fairytale. 

As Maggie takes in the view, Lars tugs her against his side and says devilishly, “If Jason won’t do it for you, there is someone else here who might.”

She follows his line of sight to a couple of people across the lawn, standing opposite the altar from Jason. There stands a person that Maggie recognizes as Peter Mensch, talking with animated hand movements to another person whose back is to Maggie, though she can recognize that body on sight. James is wearing a pair of slim black slacks and a form-fitting tux jacket. The customary cowboy boots peek out from beneath the pants. She can’t see the front of him, but just the sight of the blond hair curling down the back of the tight jacket is enough to send her stomach fluttering.

“Not funny,” she says, forcing herself to turn her eyes back to Lars. She narrows them. “Quite a low blow, in fact.”

“Oh, come on, you knew you’d be seeing him here. Just thought I’d point him out now so you don’t shit yourself when you’re standing next to him at the punch bowl later tonight.”

“You know Kirk wouldn’t have a punch bowl at his wedding.”

“Nice deflection.” Lars is still grinning deviously. “But I heard he got a champagne fountain. And an open bar. Thank God.”

They start making their way toward the chairs, which are slowly filling with people. The ceremony is bound to start in a few minutes. “Like you need booze in a scenario like this. You love crowds of people filled with ears you can yap off.”

“True, but booze never hurts. Makes them more willing to listen.”

The two of them take seats near the front, a couple rows back from the altar. There aren’t any seats specifically marked, but Maggie insists that family will want to take the front row when Lars tries claim the first two seats.

They chatter about recent events while they wait. It isn’t long before Jason shows up, casually taking the seat to Maggie’s left. In the past, she's found it difficult to be diplomatic, but she finds it easier now just to be amicable and adult. She turns to him with half of a friendly smile 

“Hey, Jase,” she says. “How’s it going?”

“Going well,” he responds. The smile he gives back looks tenuous. “It’s okay if I take this seat?”

“Obviously.”

This answer seems to put him at ease. He settles into the chair, using two palms to smooth out the pant legs of his wrinkled trousers. “I should’ve got these pants dry cleaned before I got here. Thought it’d be humid enough to iron out the creases, but it’s a perfect day and I’m a wrinkly fucking mess.”

“Don’t worry about it, dude. You look good. Besides, no one will notice your pants when I fall in these heels later.”

“So that’s why you looked so tall next to Lars. Usually you two are about even in the height department.”

“Can’t tell if that’s meant to be an insult.”

“No way. Lars is just about average height for a woman.”

Through laughter, Maggie looks to see if Lars caught the slight, but he is already too busy talking to someone sitting across the aisle from them to hear anything. Typical.

“Do you think any of these people know why the married couple are having another wedding?” Jason asks.

“I have no idea. I don’t think I even know anyone here besides you guys.”

He shrugs. “Guess we’re the only ones with the inside scoop. 

“It’s cool to get to see it happen again, though,” Maggie adds, “Considering I don’t remember the first time. 

Jason agrees with a grin. She sits there thinking about “the first time,” the morning she woke up with her face sealed to Jason’s ass cheek by a film of spit. By the look in his eye, he is thinking about the very same thing 

After a few more minutes of idle talk, during which Maggie feels a lot less uncomfortable than she’d been convincing herself she would, the guests have all nearly found their seats. The two chairs beside Jason are still vacant when an old man dressed in a tux makes his way to the altar, holding a bible. Maggie recognizes him as the pastor Tori chose to officiate the wedding, a choice made more for her Christian parents’ benefit than her own.

At the sight of the pastor taking his place at the altar, the remaining guests find their way to the empty seats. Two people file in next to Jason at this point, the first being someone Jason seems to know, as the two greet each other warmly and instantly strike up a conversation about sound systems. A musician, of course. The second person just happens to be one other particular musician: James.

Maggie senses his arrival more than she sees it; once she catches a glimpse of him out of her eye, she immediately stares straight ahead, willing herself not to look. But she can _feel_ him there, can feel the pang of panic when the familiar cadence of his voice rumbles through the air as he greets Jason and the mystery musician. Hearing that voice creates chaos inside her: her ears haven’t been privy to it in almost 2 months, and it’s just as she remembers it. Of course. But part of her wishes it was completely different, something foreign to her memory, so that it wouldn’t hurt as much recalling what she’s been missing.

By her side, Lars takes note of the newest addition to the seating arrangement, and also notes the sudden change in Maggie’s demeanor. He puts a hand on her leg and attempts to lean forward into her line of sight.

“Hey,” he whispers, “If you’re trying to act natural, it’s not working." 

“Isn’t it? I feel completely natural,” she says. 

“I assume it’s 'completely natural’ for your pulse to race like you’re having a heart attack then, huh?”

“What would you know about my pulse?”

“I can see the vein twitching in your throat.”

“Quit looking at my throat, you creep.”

In her peripheral vision, she sees Lars smirk. “Now you’re sounding a bit more normal.”

Finally, Maggie meets his probing eyes. She lowers her voice. “I am doing my best, okay? How was I supposed to know he would conveniently choose the seat that’s practically right next to me? It’s like he did it on purpose.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Well, that’s a dick move.”

“Maybe he’s hoping for a chance to talk to you.”

“Does that really seem like the kind of thing he would do?”

“I can predict his weird behavior just as much as you can, dude.”

A sudden hush falls over the crowd, and Maggie follows the turned heads to see Kirk coming down the middle aisle, all gussied up in a tux, hair pulled back into a ponytail. Suddenly, the guests cheer at once, clapping and hollering as a blushing Kirk makes his way toward the altar. He’s grinning and waving like he’s the president, walking across the tarmac to board his presidential jet. Maggie claps too, while Lars puts two fingers to his mouth and wolf whistles. Kirk looks great.

It’s not even two minutes of excited, buzzing chatter and Kirk standing awkwardly next to the pastor at the altar before the long, high note of an organ cuts through the noise. From somewhere inside, the speaker system begins playing the wedding march, and all conversation ceases as every head on the lawn turns back toward the steps of the clubhouse. Despite the silence of the crowd, the energy of the space seems to roar loudly in Maggie’s ears. Even her own excitement can’t be contained; she’s wringing Lars’ hand with her own as she peers around heads, trying to get a glimpse of the bride-to-be.

When Tori steps out of the double doors and on to the top step, her father at her elbow, Maggie’s heart clenches. Her best friend looks gorgeous, wrapped in white silk with chiffon and lace, hair coiled into a updo that makes her look like a princess. Even from across the grass, she seems to radiate a heavenly light that has nothing to do with the persistent September sunshine. Maggie can feel that the people around her, too, are just as moved as she is.

She makes her way down the aisle agonizingly slow. Her father at her arm seems gleaming with pride, and Maggie thinks that she’s never quite seen this man smile before. But this certainly is the right occasion. When he hands her off to Kirk at the foot of the altar, the two lovebirds look at each other with such gooey affection that Maggie knows she’d smile for the first time in years if she was Tori’s father, too. 

The ceremony is as all wedding ceremonies are: slightly too boring, slightly too preachy, but thankfully not terribly long. When it comes time for the two to give their vows, Maggie desperately tries to pay attention to what’s being said, but finds she can’t collect her thoughts long enough to realize she’s not even looking at them at all. Her eyes are trained on a spot just above the flowery arch of the altar, her mind focused on the man occupying the seat three chairs to her right.

She wonders what James makes of all this -- the dull ceremony, the wedding itself, the fact that he had to don his Sunday best for this event when she knows he hates any occasion that dictates how he should dress. Mostly, she wants to know if he’s thinking about just what she can’t help but obsess over: that the last time this was happening, they were standing hand-in-hand at the edge of Kirk’s pool, pressed so tight Maggie could feel James’ hair tickling her cheek. She wants to know that if James notices how, despite the fact that they’re feet away from each other this time, it still feels they are so close that Maggie can hardly breathe.

Suddenly, a voice penetrates through her thoughts: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Mr. Hammett, you may kiss the bride.”

Cheers ring out along the rolling grass. Kirk dips Tori low and kisses her as if they’ve rehearsed this move one hundred times. Beside her, Lars jumps to his feet and wolf whistles again. Maggie follows suit, standing and clapping though she doesn’t feel as if she's really there at all.

 *******  

“Wait, ‘Maggie’ is short for ‘Margaret?’”

“ _Yes_ already. What did you think, that my parents just named me ‘Maggie’ and were done with it?”

“They should have.” Kirk’s brows are raised in sympathetic disbelief. “At least they didn’t nickname you Marge.”

“Yeah, in this _Simpsons_ era that would have been a nightmare.”

He leans back against the white cloth-covered table, grinning. “Though you’d probably look hot with a Marge Simpson hairdo. Little art weirdo rocking blue hair? It really makes sense when you picture it.”

“Not in a million years.” Maggie matches his grin and his stance, leaning back against the bride and groom’s table so she can survey the main room of the clubhouse. “Where is your Mrs. Hammett at right now?” 

“Dunno. Said she was going to the bathroom, but I saw her get intercepted by my drunk father along the way, and after that I kinda lost track of her.”

“Hmm.” She continues to stare out at the ballroom, eyes picking over the various bodies twirling on the dance floor and the people filing in and out of the orangei-sh evening light seeping through the open back doors. “Don’t see her anywhere. She really must be MIA. Aren’t you worried?”

“Nah. She’s a somewhat responsible adult.” Kirk tilts his beer bottle to his lips. “Damn -- my beer is gone already." 

Maggie takes a pull from hers as well, sucking down only foam. “So is mine. Want me to grab some refills?" 

Kirk smiles, offering his empty bottle. “Sure. But get champagne this time. I paid way too much for that fountain to not get to at least try it.” 

“Two champagnes, coming right up.” Maggie takes both empty glass bottles and pushes off the table, taking a quick moment to assess the state of her balance before heading down through the dance floor toward the long refreshments buffet near the back door. 

All around her, people dance and talk and laugh. As she winds through the crowd of dancers, she catches a glimpse of Lars leading Kirk’s mom in a waltz while simultaneously blabbering in her ear at peak Lars Ulrich speed. It makes her smile warmly to herself, a little bubble burning in her chest. She’s drunk enough to think to herself that having a motormouth like Lars in her life is a blessing, especially in days like these where holding extended conversations is a rarity. The love palpably swelling in the room only amplifies this feeling.

When Maggie finally gets to the refreshment table, her eyes almost cross at the array of choices. There are plates of cheeses and crackers, breads paired with luxurious spreads and tiny butter knives, artisanally sliced veggies with unknown dips to accompany them. But what she’s come for is smack dab in the middle of the long table: a double-tiered fountain sporting three separate silver spouts, all lit up with a soft yellow light and trickling little streams of golden champagne. It’s beautiful, it’s ridiculous, and it’s the only champagne fountain Maggie will probably ever see in her lifetime. It’s a doozy just removing two glasses from the small fortress of champagne flutes lined up along the back edge of the table without knocking all of them down.

As she holds the first flute under the stream of fizz, Maggie bobs her head to the beat of “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire. 

“Do you remember,” she sings theatrically to herself, “The fourth night of September?”

“You’ve got the pipes of an angel,” a voice from her right mocks lightly.

Maggie nearly hops out of her skin in surprise. Looking up, she almost leaves her skin a second time when she sees James Hetfield beside her, looking half-smug as he holds a pint glass to the champagne fountain. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. This song always gets me,” she says.

_Damn Lars and his premonitions._

“It’s the perfect wedding song. If this doesn’t get played at your wedding some day, you have to fire the DJ.” 

For some reason, this comment hits Maggie wrong. More than half drunk, one hundred percent shocked, and still a little startled by the sudden proximity of the man she’s been waiting to hear from for the past six weeks, she blurts out, “Is this your smooth way of pretending nothing happened?”

He looks too taken aback to reply. Maggie gawks at him, at his newly-trimmed beard and his perfect hair, long since grown out of its awkward mullet stage into a lovely flowing wave of goldenrod wondrousness. At his little suit-and-tie outfit, the way the collared shirt’s top button presses gently against the column of his throat as he swallows awkwardly. It’s at this moment that she realizes they’re both too drunk to have this conversation the right way, but it’s too late. And it’s at this moment that she also reluctantly realizes that a part of her automatically pictured James as the hypothetical groom when he said _“at your wedding some day.”_

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head and looking back to the flute in hand. Seeing that it’s overflowing, she pulls it away and wipes her sticky hand on the skirt of her dress. “Maybe that was a little blunt.”

“I probably deserved that.” Cheeks red, he takes a sip from his glass.

“You know, I’ve thought about how to initiate this conversation one thousand times, and none of those mental scenarios included you catching me singing an Earth, Wind & Fire song.”

James snorts into his glass, wipes at the champagne on his lower lip. Little driblets spill over onto the collar of his shirt. “Fuck. This was the only un-stained white shirt I own.”

At the same moment, a woman appears at the fountain between them, putting her own glass to the infinite flow of bubbly emitting from the silver spouts.

James looks at Maggie from over the stranger’s head and says quietly, “Maybe we should have this conversation outside.”

Maggie nods. She guiltily thinks of Kirk waiting for her return as she finishes filling her second glass and then takes James’ silent lead toward the open back doors. Mind racing several miles per minute, she concentrates hard on keeping both flutes upright as she moves gingerly down the stairs in order to keep from portraying how nervous she truly is.

Outside, it’s nearing dark, though a luminous tangerine slice of sunshine still bathes the back lawn in a rolling, milky-orange light. The light puts James’ profile into stark relief as he leans heavily against the stone wall of the steps. Maggie stops at the foot of the stairs, gazing at the perfect etching of his profile unabashedly, noting every stray hair that drifts in the deep evening breeze, every slope and edge of his face.

Without thinking, she says aloud, “It feels like I haven’t seen your face in years.”

There is a long pause, during which Maggie realizes he is examining her, too. “How can you feel like it’s been years since you’ve seen someone you’ve only known for a few months?”

Bitterly, she responds, “Guess that’s what happens when you grow fond of someone.”

James doesn’t say anything.

“How have you been?” she asks, tempering herself ever so slightly. She has to set the champagne glasses on the edge of the wall.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“How have you been?” he parrots back.

What kind of question is that? Maggie fumes, a big hot anger boiling inside of her the longer she looks at his profile.

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” she asks. “I waited. Waited for you to call. After what you said, I was sure you’d be sorry, and yet weeks went by and you couldn’t even leave a message to let me know you were thinking about me.”

“You know I was thinking about you,” he mutters quietly.

“Do I? How was I supposed to know?”

He won’t meet her accusing eyes. “I _was_ thinking of you.”

“Maybe you weren’t thinking of me hard enough, then, because it felt like you completely fucking forgot me.”

“I was _only_ thinking of you,” he spits, bitterness creeping into his own voice. He finally meets her gaze, and his own is steely and remorseful. “Despite what you might think, I know what I deserve, and I sure as shit don’t deserve to be with someone like you. So I’m fucking sorry if it seemed like I was avoiding you, but I was only trying to protect you.”

Though she knows this is meant to console her, James’ words only inflame Maggie more, chafing the long-brewing ache in her chest. “Protect me? From what? I have been _waiting for you,_ asshole. I don’t want you to protect me. I just want you to _talk_ to me.”

She puts both her hands to his sturdy chest and pushes. His eyes go wide as he bounces back against the stone parapet.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you call?” she demands again. She feels wet heat burning behind her eyes. “All I wanted was for you to say sorry. It’s not that fucking hard.”

James puts his arms out, moves to embrace her. “Maggie, I’m sorry -- “

“No!” She shoves him again, stumbling back a step, the breeze pushing strands of hair into her wet lashes. “You can’t apologize _now_ , you idiot. What is wrong with you? Are you really too dumb to fucking realize that I love you?”

Hands raised in defense, James pauses, looking her pointedly in the eyes. “You what?”

“Fuck you,” she says. A stray tear trails down her cheek. Maggie wipes at it with one hand.

“I didn’t hear you.” For some reason, James is smiling now, though timidly, as if he’s expecting another shove.

Maggie goes for it, bringing her hands up to push again, but he grabs them and holds on.

“Say it again,” he says.

Another angry tear escapes the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t have a free hand to wipe this one away. “Is it really that surprising?”

“A little.”

“Then you’re just as dense as you look.”

Inside the clubhouse, the song changes. The first piano chords of a Sam Cooke tune comes on now, a long-forgotten song from Maggie’s childhood that at once reminds her of her dad and makes her curse the cosmic forces that make songs like this play at times like these.

“Why would this song come on right now?” she asks, mostly to herself.

The lyrics are muffled, but still audible: _“If you ever change your mind about leaving, leaving me behind, baby bring it to me, bring your sweet loving, bring it on home to me…”_

James is still smiling. “You’re avoiding the conversation.”

“Can’t blame me for not wanting to discuss such a cheery topic, can you?”

“I quite like this topic, actually.”

She looks up into his face, chest throbbing. James’ grip on her wrists is soft, but it feels white hot. “It just seems like I’m not important enough for you to suck up your pride and apologize.”

“That’s not my strong suit. You’ve got to know that by now.”

Maggie doesn’t know what to say. She stares at his expression, trying again to memorize the things that are impossible to forget: the placement of the features, the crystalline blue of his eyes, the places on his face where wrinkle lines from smiling should be but aren’t. She wonders if they’d be there by now if these past six weeks had been spent together instead of apart.

“It’s hard for me to talk about how I feel. Guess that’s another thing I’m not very good at.” He moves slightly closer, so her captive hands now rest on his chest. “But I can try to be better.”

“Then tell me how you feel,” she says.

“I feel like we should start over. If you want to.”

“How can we?”

Smiling softly, he pulls her forward, all her weight leaning into his. “Isn’t this how it all started last time? At Kirk’s wedding?”

Though her lashes are still wet, she has to smile too.

From the doorway, a Danish voice suddenly calls out, “Maggie, where the fuck are you? I wanna do a -- oh. Fuck.”

The two look around to see Lars standing at the head of the stairs, two shot glasses in hand and a dumbfounded look on his face. He shakes his head once, as if to see more clearly, then says, “I just saw you come out here and wanted to do a shot, I didn’t know you were, uh -- yeah. Shot?” He holds out the glass to her.

With a snort, she pulls her wrists from Hetfield’s grip and pushes away. Her hand reaches out as she ascends the few steps to Lars. “I think I need it. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He hands it off, starting to look a little self-satisfied as his eyes flick behind her to James. She can only imagine what kind of knowing look they’re sharing. “Want to make a toast?”

“Go ahead.”

“To ‘new beginnings?’” he says slyly.

They raise their shot glasses, clink them together, then down them. Whatever it is, it’s awful. But the burn reassures her that there are worse things in the world than Lars’ impish smirk and her slight embarrassment.

“I’ll go,” he says, collecting the glass again. “Seem like you were kinda in the middle of something.”

“Yes, go away. I’ll find you later.”

“Something tells me you’ll be _busy_ later,” he says. He slips away before any form of physical punishment can be enacted.

“He’s always got good timing,” James says from behind her.

Maggie turns to look at him, for once a few feet taller than him from her vantage point atop the stairs. She notes that he looks good from all angles: above, below, near or far. Especially in a suit. The last fingers of sunlight make him glow like the waning flickers of a candle.

“I don’t think it’s really fair for you to pull me out here during sunset, looking like you do, to make you grand apology,” she says. “Which, by the way, you haven’t done yet.”

He grins as she descends the steps toward him. “I thought it was too late to apologize?”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Yeah?” When she’s near enough to reach, he pulls her to him again and wraps his arms tight around her waist. “Well, if you’d like to know, I’m really sorry. And I’d like to be different this time. If you’ll let me try again.”

“You’re going to have to convince me,” she says. Despite how unforgiving she wants to be, it feels too natural to be wrapped up in him. Her eyes can’t decide if they want to meet his smiling gaze or stare at his upturned lips.

“How would I do that?”

“You know how.”

His grin spreads wider. With one self-conscious lick of his lips, he slowly leans forward and presses his mouth to hers, a hand sliding up her back to weave gently into the wave of her hair.

Maggie sighs, leaning into him more. With his mouth against hers, it’s hard to remember that anything bad had ever happened -- that it’s been six weeks since she’s seen him, six weeks since she’s heard his voice, six weeks since he’s kissed her like this. It’s as if time suddenly turns again, putting them right back to where they were in late July when everything had been easy and she couldn’t wait until the next time they were alone enough to melt into each other this way and just _be_.

James breaks off momentarily, breath cooling her wet lips as he says, “I love you too, you know.”

She smiles and pulls him in again. The sun disappears beneath the horizon, a couple nosy crickets chirp somewhere in the grass, music still plays softly inside the country club, and Maggie continues to kiss James even as the song changes to the next, and the next, and the next. She doesn't think she'll ever have to try to remember what this feels like again, but she kisses him till she can't anymore, just in case.


End file.
